The Fall of Reach
by Queen of the Snow-Wolf
Summary: This is the actual story of The Fall of Reach by Eric S. Nylund
1. Prologue

_**I do not own this story this story is owned by Eric Nylund**_

 _ **Prologue**_

0500 Hours, February 12, 2535 (Military Calendar) / Lambda Serpentis System, Jericho VII Theater of Operations

"Contact. All teams stand by: enemy contact, my position."

The Chief knew there were probably more than a hundred of them—motion sensors were off the scale.

He wanted to see them for himself, though; his training made that lesson clear: "Machines break. Eyes don't."

The four Spartans that composed Blue Team covered his back, standing absolutely silent and immobile in their MJOLNIR combat armor. Someone had once commented that they looked like Greek war gods in the armor . . . but his Spartans were far more effective and ruthless than Homer's gods had ever been.

He snaked the fiber-optic probe up and over the three-meter-high stone ridge. When it was in place, the Chief linked it to his helmet's heads-up display.

On the other side he saw a valley with eroded rock walls and a river meandering through it . . . and camped along the banks as far as he could see were Grunts.

The Covenant used these stocky aliens as cannon fodder. They stood a meter tall and wore armored environment suits that replicated the atmosphere of their frozen homeworld. They reminded the Chief of biped dogs, not only in appearance, but because their speech—even with the new translation software—

was an odd combination of high-pitched squeaks, guttural barks, and growls.

They were about as smart as dogs, too. But what they lacked in brainpower, they made up for in sheer tenacity. He had seen them hurl themselves at their enemies until the ground was piled high with their corpses . . . and their opponents had depleted their ammunition.

These Grunts were unusually well armed: needlers, plasma pistols, and there were four stationary plasma cannons. Those could be a problem.

One other problem: there were easily a thousand of them.

This operation had to go off without a hitch. Blue Team's mission was to draw out the Covenant rear guard and let Red Team slip through in the confusion. Red Team would then plant a HAVOK tactical nuke. When the next Covenant ship landed, dropped its shields, and started to unload its troops, they'd get a thirty-megaton surprise.

The Chief detached the optics and took a step back from the rock wall. He passed the tactical information along to his team over a secure COM channel.

"Four of us," Blue-Two whispered over the link. "And a thousand of them? Piss-poor odds for the little guys."

"Blue-Two," the Chief said, "I want you up with those Jackhammer launchers. Take out the cannons and soften the rest of them. Blue-Three and Five, you follow me up—we're on crowd control. Blue-Four: you get the welcome mat ready. Understood?"

Four blue lights winked on his heads-up display as his team acknowledged the orders.

"On my mark." The Chief crouched and readied himself. "Mark!"

Blue-Two leaped gracefully atop the ridge—three meters straight up. There was no sound as the half ton of MJOLNIR armor and Spartan landed on the limestone.

She hefted one launcher and ran along the ridge—she was the fastest Spartan on the Chief's team. He was confident those Grunts wouldn't be able to track her for the three seconds she'd be exposed. In quick succession, Blue-Two emptied both of the Jackhammer's tubes, dropped one launcher, and then fired the other rockets just as fast. The shells streaked into the Grunts' formation and detonated. One of the stationary guns flipped over, engulfed in the blast, and the gunner was flung to the ground.

She ditched the launcher, jumped down—rolled once—and was back on her feet, running at top speed to the fallback point.

The Chief, Blue-Three, and Blue-Five leaped to the top of the ridge. The Chief switched to infrared to cut through the clouds of dust and propellant exhaust just in time to see the second salvo of Jackhammers strike their targets. Two consecutive blossoms of flash, fire, and thunder decimated the front ranks of the Grunt guards, and most importantly, turned the last of the plasma cannons into smoldering wreckage.

The Chief and the others opened fire with their MA5B assault rifles—a full automatic spray of fifteen rounds per second. Armor-piercing bullets tore into the aliens, breaching their environment suits and sparking the methane tanks they carried. Gouts of flame traced wild arcs as the wounded Grunts ran in confusion and pain.

Finally the Grunts realized what was happening—and where this attack was coming from. They regrouped and charged en masse . An earthquake vibration coursed through the ground and shook the porous stone beneath the Chief's boots.

The three Spartans exhausted their AP clips and then, in unison, switched to shredder rounds. They fired into the tide of creatures as they surged forward. Line after line of them dropped. Scores more just trampled their fallen comrades.

Explosive needles bounced off the Chief's armor, detonating as they hit the ground. He saw the flash of a plasma bolt—side stepped—and heard the air crackle where he had stood a split second before.

"Inbound Covenant air support," Blue-Four reported over the COM link. "ETA is two minutes, Chief."

"Roger that," he said. "Blue-Three and -Five: maintain fire for five seconds, then fall back. Mark!"

Their status lights winked once, acknowledging his order.

The Grunts were three meters from the wall. The Chief tossed two grenades. He, Blue-Three, and Blue-Five stepped backward off the ridge, landed, spun, and ran.

Two dull thumps reverberated though the ground. The squeals and barks of the incoming Grunts, however, drowned out the noise of the exploding grenades.

The Chief and his team sprinted up the half-kilometer sandstone slope in thirty-two seconds flat. The hill ended abruptly—a sheer drop of two hundred meters straight into the ocean.

Blue-Four's voice crackled over the COM channel: "Welcome mat is laid out, Chief. Ready when you are."

The Grunts looked like a living carpet of steel-blue skin, claws, and chrome weapons. Some ran on all fours up the slope. They barked and howled, baying for the Spartans' blood.

"Roll out the carpet," the Chief told Blue-Four.

The hill exploded—plumes of pulverized sandstone and fire and smoke hurtled skyward.

The Spartans had buried a spiderweb pattern of Lotus antitank mines earlier that morning.

Sand and bits of metal pinged off of the Chief's helmet.

The Chief and his team opened fire again, picking off the remaining Grunts that were still alive and struggling to stand.

His motion detector flashed a warning. There were incoming projectiles high at two o'clock—velocities at over a hundred kilometers per hour.

Five Covenant Banshee fliers appeared over the ridge.

"New contacts. All teams, open fire!" he barked.

The Spartans, without hesitation, fired on the alien fliers. Bullet hits pinged from the fliers' chitinous armor—it would take a very lucky shot to take out the antigrav pods on the end of the craft's stubby meter-long "wings."

The fire got the aliens' attention, however. Lances of fire slashed from the Banshees' gunports.

The Chief dove and rolled to his feet. Sandstone exploded where he had stood only an instant before.

Globules of molten glass sprayed the Spartans.

The Banshees screamed over their heads—then banked sharply for another pass.

"Blue-Three, Blue-Five: Theta Maneuver," the Chief called out.

Blue-Three and -Five gave him the thumbs-up signal.

They regrouped at the edge of the cliff and clipped onto the steel cables that dangled down the length of the rock wall.

"Did you set up the fougasses with fire or shrapnel?" the Chief asked.

"Both," Blue-Three replied.

"Good." The Chief grabbed the detonators. "Cover me."

The fougasses were never meant to take down flying targets; the Spartans had put them there to mop up the Grunts. In the field, though, you had to improvise. Another tenet of their training: adapt or die.

The Banshees formed into a "flying V" and swooped toward them, almost brushing the ground.

The Spartans opened fire.

Bolts of superheated plasma from the Banshees punctuated the air.

The Chief dodged to the right, then to the left; he ducked. Their aim was getting better.

The Banshees were one hundred meters away, then fifty meters. Their plasma weapons might recycle fast enough to get another shot . . . and at this range, the Chief wouldn't be dodging.

The Spartans jumped backward off the cliff—guns still blazing. The Chief jumped, too, and hit the detonators.

The ten fougasses—each a steel barrel filled with napalm and spent AP and shredder casings—had been buried a few meters from the edge of the cliff, their mouths angled up at thirty degrees. When the grenades at the bottom of the barrels exploded, it made one hell of a barbecue out of anything that got in their way.

The Spartans slammed into the side of the cliff—the steel cables they were attached to twanged taut.

A wave of heat and pressure washed over them. A heartbeat later five flaming Banshees hurtled over their heads, leaving thick trails of black smoke as they arced into the water. They splashed down, then vanished beneath the emerald waves. The Spartans hung there a moment, waiting and watching with their assault rifles trained on the water.

No survivors surfaced.

They rappelled down to the beach and rendezvoused with Blue-Two and -Four.

"Red Team reports mission objective achieved, Chief," Blue-Two said. "They send their compliments."

"It's hardly going to balance the scales," Blue-Three muttered, and kicked the sand. "Not like those Grunts when they slaughtered the 105th Drop Jet Platoon. They should suffer just as much as those guys did."

The Chief had nothing to say to that. It wasn't his job to make things suffer—he was just here to win battles. Whatever it took.

"Blue-Two," the Chief said. "Get me an uplink."

"Aye aye." She patched him into the SATCOM system.

"Mission accomplished, Captain de Blanc," the Chief reported. "Enemy neutralized."

"Excellent news," the Captain said. He sighed, and added, "But we're pulling you out, Chief."

"We're just getting warmed up down here, sir."

"Well, it's a different story up here. Move out for pickup ASAP."

"Understood, sir." The Chief killed the uplink. He told his team, "The party's over, Spartans. Dust-off in fifteen."

They jogged double-quick up the ten kilometers of the beach, and returned to their dropship—a Pelican, scuffed and dented from three days' hard fighting. They boarded and the ship's engines whined to life.

Blue-Two took off her helmet and scratched the stubble of her brown hair. "It's a shame to leave this place," she said, and leaned against the porthole. "There are so few left."

The Chief stood by her and glanced out as they lifted into the air—there were wide rolling plains of palmgrass, the green expanse of ocean, a wispy band of clouds in the sky, and setting red suns.

"There will be other places to fight for," he said.

"Will there?" she whispered.

The Pelican ascended rapidly through the atmosphere, the sky darkened, and soon only stars surrounded them.

In orbit, there were dozens of frigates, destroyers, and two massive carriers. Every ship had carbon scoring and holes peppering their hulls. They were all maneuvering to break orbit.

They docked in the port bay of the UNSC destroyer Resolute . Despite being surrounded by two meters of titanium-A battle plate and an array of modern weapons, the Chief preferred to have his feet on the ground, with real gravity, and real atmosphere to breathe—a place where he was in control, and where his life wasn't held in the hands of anonymous pilots. A ship just wasn't home.

The battlefield was.

The Chief rode the elevator to the bridge to make his report, taking advantage of the momentary respite to read Red Team's after-action report in his display. As predicted, the Spartans of Red, Blue, and Green Teams—augmenting three divisions of battle-hardened UNSC Marines—had stalled a Covenant ground advance. Casualty figures were still coming in, but—on the ground, at least—the alien forces had been completely stonewalled.

A moment later the lift doors parted, and he stepped on the rubberized deck. He snapped a crisp salute to Captain de Blanc. "Sir. Reporting as ordered."

The junior bridge officers took a step back from the Chief. They weren't used to seeing a Spartan in full MJOLNIR armor up close—most line troops had never even seen a Spartan. The ghostly iridescent green of the armor plates and the matte black layers underneath made him look part gladiator, part machine. Or perhaps to the bridge crew, he looked as alien as the Covenant.

The view screens showed stars and Jerico VII's four silver moons. At extreme range, a small constellation of stars drifted closer.

The Captain waved the Chief closer as he stared at that cluster of stars—the rest of the battlegroup. "It's happening again."

"Request permission to remain on the bridge, sir," the Chief said. "I . . . want to see it this time, sir."

The Captain hung his head, looking weary. He glanced at the Master Chief with haunted eyes. "Very well, Chief. After all you've been through to save Jericho Seven, we owe you that. We're only thirty million kilometers out-system, though, not half as far as I'd like to be." He turned to the NAV Officer.

"Bearing one two zero. Prepare our exit vector."

He turned to face the Chief. "We'll stay to watch . . . but if those bastards so much as twitch in our direction, we're jumping the hell out of here."

"Understood, sir. Thank you."

Resolute's engines rumbled and the ship moved off.

Three dozen Covenant ships—big ones, destroyers and cruisers—winked into view in the system. They were sleek, looking more like sharks than starcraft. Their lateral lines brightened with plasma—then discharged and rained fire down upon Jericho VII.

The Chief watched for an hour and didn't move a muscle.

The planet's lakes, rivers, and oceans vaporized. By tomorrow, the atmosphere would boil away, too.

Fields and forests were glassy smooth and glowing red-hot in patches.

Where there had once been a paradise, only hell remained.

"Make ready to jump clear of the system," the Captain ordered.

The Chief continued to watch, his face grim.

There had been ten years of this—the vast network of human colonies whittled down to a handful of strongholds by a merciless, implacable enemy. The Chief had killed the enemy on the ground—shot them, stabbed them, and broken them with his own two hands. On the ground, the Spartans always won.

The problem was, the Spartans couldn't take their fight into space. Every minor victory on the ground turned into a major defeat in orbit.

Soon there would be no more colonies, no human settlements—and nowhere left to run.


	2. Chapter 1: Reveille

_**I do not own this story this story is owned by Eric Nylund**_

 _ **Chapter one**_

REVEILLE

0430 Hours, August 17, 2517 (Military Calendar) / Slipstream space - unknown coordinates near Eridanus Star System

Lieutenant Junior Grade Jacob Keyes awoke. Dull red light filled his blurry vision and he choked on the slime in his lungs and throat.

"Sit up, Lieutenant Keyes," a disembodied male voice said. "Sit. Take a deep breath and cough, sir. You need to clear the bronchial surfactant."

Lieutenant Keyes pushed himself up, peeling his back off the formfitting gel bed. Wisps of fog overflowed from the cryogenic tube as he clumsily climbed out. He sat on a nearby bench, tried to inhale, and doubled over, coughing until a long string of clear fluid flowed from his open mouth.

He sat up and drew his first full breath in two weeks. He tasted his lips and almost gagged. The cryo inhalant was specially designed to be regurgitated and swallowed, replacing nutrients lost in the deep sleep. No matter how they changed the formula, though, it always tasted like lime-flavored mucus.

"Status, Toran? Are we under attack?"

"Negative, sir," the ship's AI replied. "Status normal. We will enter normal space near the Eridanus System in forty-five minutes."

Lieutenant Keyes coughed again. "Good. Thank you, Toran."

"You're welcome, Lieutenant."

Eridanus was on the border of the Outer Colonies. It was just far enough off the beaten path for pirates to be lurking . . . waiting to capture a diplomatic shuttle like the Han . This ship wouldn't last long in a space action. They should have an escort. He didn't understand why they had been sent alone—but Junior Lieutenants didn't question orders. Especially when those orders came from FLEETCOM HQ on planet Reach.

Wake-up protocols dictated that he inspect the rest of the crew to make sure no one had run into problems reviving. He looked around the sleep chamber: rows of stainless steel lockers and showers, a medical pod for emergency resuscitations, and forty cryogenic tubes—all empty except the one to his left.

The other person on the Han was the civilian specialist, Dr. Halsey. Keyes had been ordered to protect her at all costs, pilot this ship, and generally stay the hell out of her way. They might as well have asked him to hold her hand. This wasn't a military mission; it was baby-sitting. Someone at Fleet Command must have him on their blacklist.

The cover of Dr. Halsey's tube hummed open. Mist rippled out as she sat up, coughing. Her pale skin made her look like a ghost in the fog. Matted locks of dark hair clung to her neck. She didn't look much older than him, and she was lovely—not beautiful, but definitely a striking woman. For a civilian, anyway.

Her blue eyes fixed upon the Lieutenant and she looked him over. "We must be near Eridanus," she said.

Lieutenant Keyes almost saluted reflectively, but checked the motion. "Yes, Doctor." His face reddened and he looked away from her slender body.

He had drilled in cryogenic recovery a dozen times at the Academy. He'd seen his fellow officers nak*d before—men and women. But Dr. Halsey was a civilian. He didn't know what protocols applied.

Lieutenant Keyes got up and went to her. "Can I help you—"

She swung her legs out of the tube and climbed out. "I'm fine, Lieutenant. Get cleaned up and dressed."

She brushed past him and strode to the showers. "Hurry. We have important work to do."

Lieutenant Keyes stood straighter. "Aye, aye, Ma'am."

With that brief encounter, their roles and the rules of conduct crystallized. Civilian or not—like it or not

—Lieutenant Keyes understood that Dr. Halsey was in charge.

The bridge of the Han had an abundance of space for a vessel of its size. That is, it had all the maneuvering room of a walk-in closet. A freshly showered, shaved, and uniformed Lieutenant Keyes pulled himself into the room and sealed the pressure door behind him. Every surface of the bridge was covered with monitors and screens. The wall on his left was a single large semicurved view screen, dark for the moment because there was nothing in the visible spectrum to see in Slipspace.

Behind him was the Han 's spinning center section, containing the mess, the rec room, and the sleep chambers. There was no gravity on the bridge, however. The diplomatic shuttle had been designed for the comfort of its passengers, not the crew.

It didn't seem to bother Dr. Halsey. Strapped into the navigator's couch, she wore a white jumpsuit that matched her pale skin, and had tied her dark hair into a simple, elegant knot. Her fingers danced across four keypads, tapping in commands.

"Welcome, Lieutenant," she said without looking up. "Please have a seat at the communication station and monitor the channels when we enter normal space. If there's so much as a squeak on nonstandard frequencies, I want to know instantly."

He drifted to the communication station and strapped himself down.

"Toran?" she asked.

"Awaiting your orders, Dr. Halsey," the ship AI replied.

"Give me astrogation maps of the system."

"Online, Dr. Halsey."

"Are there any planets currently aligned with our entry trajectory and Eridanus Two? I want to pick up a gravitational boost so we can move in-system ASAP."

"Calculating now, Doctor Hal—"

"And can we have some music? Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto Number Three, I think."

"Understood Doctor—"

"And start a preburn warm-up cycle for the fusion engines."

"Yes, Doc—"

"And stop spinning the Han 's central carousel section. We may need the power."

"Working . . . "

She eased back. The music started and she sighed. "Thank you, Toran."

"You're welcome, Dr. Halsey. Entering normal space in five minutes, plus or minus three minutes."

Lieutenant Keyes shot the doctor an admiring glance. He was impressed—few people could put a shipboard AI through its paces so rigorously as to cause a detectable pause.

She turned to face him. "Yes, Lieutenant? You have a question?"

He composed himself and pulled his uniform jacket taut. "I was curious about our mission, ma'am. I assume we are to reconnoiter something in this system, but why send a shuttle, rather than a prowler or a corvette? And why just the two of us?"

She blinked and smiled. "A fairly accurate assumption and analysis, Lieutenant. This is a reconnaissance mission . . . of sorts. We are here to observe a child. The first of many, I hope."

"A child?"

"A six-year-old male, to be precise." She waved her hand. "It may help if you think of this purely as a UNSC-funded physiological study." Every trace of a smile evaporated from her lips. "Which is precisely what you are to tell anyone who asks. Is that understood, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, Doctor."

Keyes frowned, retrieved his grandfather's pipe from his pocket, and turned it end over end. He couldn't smoke the thing—igniting a combustible on the flight deck was against every major regulation on a UNSC space vehicle—but sometimes he just fiddled with it or chewed on the tip, which helped him think. He stuck it back into his pocket, and decided to push the issue and find out more.

"With all due respect, Dr. Halsey, this sector of space is dangerous."

With a sudden deceleration, they entered normal space. The main view screen flickered and a million stars snapped into focus. The Han dove toward a cloud-swirled gas giant dead ahead.

"Stand by for burn," Dr. Halsey announced. "On my mark, Toran."

Lieutenant Keyes tightened his harness.

"Three . . . two . . . one. Mark. "

The ship rumbled and sped faster toward the gas giant. The pull of the harness increased around the Lieutenant's chest, making breathing difficult. They accelerated for sixty-seven seconds . . . the storms of the gas giant grew larger on the view screen—then the Han arced up and away from its surface.

Eridanus drifted into the center of the screen and filled the bridge with warm orange light.

"Gravity boost complete," Toran chimed. "ETA to Eridanus is forty-two minutes, three seconds."

"Well done," Dr. Halsey said. She unlocked her harness and floated free, stretching. "I hate cryo sleep,"

she said. "It leaves one so cramped."

"As I was saying before, Doctor, this system is dangerous—"

She gracefully spun to face him, halting her momentum with a hand on the bulkhead. "Oh yes, I know how dangerous this system is. It has a colorful history: rebel insurrection in 2494, beaten down by the UNSC two years later at the cost of four destroyers." She thought a moment, then added, "I don't believe the Office of Naval Intelligence ever found their base in the asteroid field. And since there have been organized raids and scattered pirate activity nearby, one might conclude—as ONI clearly has—that the remnants of the original rebel faction are still active. Is that that what you were worried about?"

"Yes," the Lieutenant replied. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, but he refused to be cowed by the doctor—by a civilian . "I need hardly remind you that it's my job to worry about our security."

She knew more than he did, much more, about the Eridanus System—and she obviously had contacts in the intelligence community. Keyes had never seen an ONI spook—to the best of his knowledge anyway.

Mainline Navy personnel had elevated such agents to near-mythological status.

Whatever else he thought of Dr. Halsey, he would assume from now on that she knew what she was doing.

Dr. Halsey stretched once more and then strapped herself back onto the navigation couch. "Speaking of pirates," she said with her back now to him, "weren't you supposed to be monitoring communication channels for illegal signals? Just in case someone takes undue interest in a lone, unescorted, diplomatic shuttle?"

Lieutenant Keyes cursed himself for his momentary lapse and snapped to. He scanned all frequencies and had Toran cross-check their authentication codes.

"All signals verified," he reported. "No pirate transmissions detected."

"Continue to monitor them, please."

An awkward thirty minutes passed. Dr. Halsey was content to read reports on the navigational screens, and kept her back to him.

Lieutenant Keyes finally cleared his throat. "May I speak candidly, Doctor?"

"You don't need my permission," she said. "By all means, speak candidly, Lieutenant. You've been doing a fine job so far."

Under normal circumstances, among normal officers, that last remark would have been insubordination

—or worse, a rebuke. But he let it pass. Normal military protocols seemed to have been jettisoned on this flight.

"You said we were here to observe a child." He shook his head dubiously. "If this is a cover for real military intelligence work, then, to tell the truth, there are better-qualified officers for this mission. I graduated from UNSC OCS only seven weeks ago. My orders had me rotated to the Magellan . Those orders were rescinded, ma'am."

She turned and scrutinized him with icy blue eyes. "Go on, Lieutenant."

He reached for his pipe, but then checked the motion. She would probably think it a silly habit.

"If this is an intel op," he said, "then . . . then I don't understand why I'm here at all."

She leaned forward. "Then, Lieutenant, I shall be equally candid."

Something deep inside Lieutenant Keyes told him he would regret hearing whatever Dr. Halsey had to say. He ignored the feeling. He wanted to know the truth.

"Go ahead, Doctor."

Her slight smile returned. "You are here because Vice Admiral Stanforth, head of Section Three of UNSC Military Intelligence Division, refused to lend me this shuttle without at least one UNSC officer aboard—even though he knows damn well that I can pilot this bucket by myself. So I picked one UNSC

officer. You." She tapped her lower lip thoughtfully and added, "You see, I've read your file, Lieutenant. All of it."

"I don't know—"

"You do know what I'm talking about." She rolled her eyes. "You don't lie well. Don't insult me by trying again."

Lieutenant Keyes swallowed. "Then why me? Especially if you've seen my record?"

"I chose you precisely because of your record—because of the incident in your second year at OCS.

Fourteen ensigns killed. You were wounded and spent two months in rehabilitation. Plasma burns are particularly painful, I understand."

He rubbed his hands together. "Yes."

"The Lieutenant responsible was your CO on that training mission. You refused to testify against him despite overwhelming evidence and the testimony of his fellow officers . . . and friends."

"Yes."

"They told the board of review the secret the Lieutenant had entrusted to you all—that he was going to test his new theory to make Slipspace jumps more accurate. He was wrong, and you all paid for his eagerness and poor mathematics."

Lieutenant Keyes studied his hands and had the feeling of falling inward. Dr. Halsey's voice sounded distant. "Yes."

"Despite continuing pressure, you never testified. They threatened to demote you, charge you with insubordination and refusing a direct order—even discharge you from the Navy.

"Your fellow officer candidates testified, though. The review board had all the evidence they needed to court-martial your CO. They put you on report and dropped all further disciplinary actions."

He said nothing. His head hung low.

"That is why you are here, Lieutenant—because you have an ability that is exceedingly rare in the military. You can keep a secret." She drew in a long breath and added, "You may have to keep many secrets after this mission is over."

He glanced up. There was a strange look in her eyes. Pity? That caught him off guard and he looked away again. But he felt better than he had since OCS. Someone trusted him again.

"I think," she said, "that you would rather be on the Magellan . Fighting and dying on the frontier."

"No, I—" He caught the lie as he said it, stopped, then corrected himself. "Yes. The UNSC needs every man and woman patrolling the Outer Colonies. Between the raiders and insurrections, it's a wonder it all hasn't fallen apart."

"Indeed, Lieutenant, ever since we left Earth's gravity, well, we've been fighting one another for every cubic centimeter of vacuum—from Mars to the Jovian Moons to the Hydra System Massacres and on to the hundred brushfire wars in the Outer Colonies. It has always been on the brink of falling apart. That's why we're here."

"To observe one child," he said. "What difference could a child make?"

One of her eyebrows arched. "This child could be more useful to the UNSC than a fleet of destroyers, a thousand Junior Grade Lieutenants—or even me . In the end, the child may be the only thing that makes any difference."

"Approaching Eridanus Two," Toran informed them.

"Plot an atmospheric vector for the Luxor spaceport," Dr. Halsey ordered. "Lieutenant Keyes, make ready to land."


	3. Chapter 2

I do not own this story it is owned by Eric Nylund

CHAPTER TWO

1130 Hours, August 17, 2517 (Military Calendar)

Eridanus Star System, Eridanus 2, Elysium City

The orange sun cast a fiery glow on the playground of Elysium City Primary Education Facility No. 119.

Dr. Halsey and Lieutenant Keyes stood in the semishade of a canvas awning and watched children as they screamed and chased one another and climbed on steel lattices and skimmed gravballs across the repulsor courts.

Lieutenant Keyes looked extremely uncomfortable in civilian clothes. He wore a loose gray suit, a white shirt, and no tie. Dr. Halsey found his sudden awkwardness charming.

When he had complained the clothes were too loose and sloppy, she had almost laughed. He was pure military to the core. Even out of uniform, the Lieutenant stood rigid, as if he were at perpetual attention.

"It's nice here," she said. "This colony doesn't know how good they've got it. Rural lifestyle. No pollution. No crowding. Climate-controlled weather."

The Lieutenant grunted an acknowledgment as he tried to smooth the wrinkles out of his silk jacket.

"Relax," she said. "We're supposed to be parents inspecting the school for our little girl." She slipped her arm through his, and although she would have thought such a feat impossible, the Lieutenant stood even straighter.

She sighed and pulled away from him, opened her purse, and retrieved a palm-sized pad. She adjusted the brim of her wide straw hat to shade the pad from the noon glare. With a tap of her finger, she accessed and scanned the file she had assembled of their subject.

Number 117 had all the genetic markers she had flagged in her original study—he was as close to a perfect subject for her purposes as science could determine. But Dr. Halsey knew it would take more than theoretical perfection to make this project work. People were more than the sum of their genes.

There were environmental factors, mutations, learned ethics, and a hundred other factors that could make this candidate unacceptable.

The picture in the file showed a typical six-year-old male. He had tousled brown hair and a sly grin that revealed a gap between his front teeth. A few freckles were speckled across his checks. Good—she could match the patternsto confirm his identity.

"Our subject." As she angled the pad toward the Lieutenant so he could see the boy, Dr. Halsey noticed that the picture was four months old. Didn't ONI realize how fast these children changed? Sloppy. She made a note to request updated pictures on a regular basis until phase three started.

"Is that him?" the Lieutenant whispered.

Dr. Halsey looked up.

The Lieutenant nodded to a grassy hill at the end of the playground. The crest of that hill was bare dirt, scuffed clean of all vegetation. A dozen boys pushed and shoved one another—grabbed, tackled, rolled down the slope, and then got up, ran back, and started the process over.

"King of the hill," Dr. Halsey remarked.

One boy stood on the crest. He blocked, pushed, and strong-armed all the other children.

Dr. Halsey pointed her data pad at him and recorded this incident for later study. She zoomed in on the subject to get a better look. This boy smiled and showed the same small gap between his front teeth. A split-second freeze frame and she matched his freckles to the picture on file.

"That's our boy."

He was taller than the other children by a full head, and—if his performance in the game was any indicator—stronger as well. Another boy grabbed him from behind in a headlock. Number 117 peeled the boy off, and—with a laugh—tossed him down the hillside like a toy.

Dr. Halsey had expected a specimen of perfect physical proportions and stunning intellect. True, the subject was strong and fast, but he was also dirty and rude.

Then again, unrealistic and subjective perceptions had to be confronted in these field studies. What did she really expect? He was a six-year-old boy—full of life and unchecked emotion and as predictable as the wind.

Three boys ganged up on him. Two grabbed his legs and one threw his arms around his chest. They all tumbled down the hill. Number 117 kicked and punched and bit his attackers until they let go and ran away to a safe distance. He rose and tore back up the hill, bumping another boy and shouting that he was king.

"He seems," the Lieutenant started, "um, very animated."

"Yes," Dr. Halsey said. "We may be able to use this one."

She glanced up and down the playground. The only adult was helping a girl get to her feet after falling down and scraping her elbow; she marched her towards the nurse's office.

"Stay here and watch me, Lieutenant," she said, and passed him the data pad. "I'm going to have a closer look."

The Lieutenant started to say something, but Dr. Halsey walked away, then half jogged across the painted lines of hopscotch squares on the playground. A breeze caught her sundress and she had to clutch the hem with one hand, grabbing the brim of her straw hat with the other. She slowed to a trot and halted four meters from the base of the hill.

The children stopped and turned.

"You're in trouble," one boy said, and pushed Number 117.

He shoved the boy back and then looked Dr. Halsey squarely in the eyes. The other children looked away; some wore embarrassed smirks, and a few slowly backed off.

Her subject, however, stood there defiantly. He was either confident she wasn't going to punish him—or he simply wasn't afraid. She saw that he had a bruise on his cheek, the knees of his pants were torn, and his lip was cracked.

Dr. Halsey took three steps closer. Several of the children took three involuntary steps backward.

"Can I speak with you, please?" she asked, and continued to stare at her subject.

He finally broke eye contact, shrugged, and then lumbered down the hill. The other children giggled and made tsking sounds; one tossed a pebble at him. Number 117 ignored them.

Dr. Halsey led him to the edge of the nearby sandpit and stopped.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"I'm John," he said. The boy held out his hand.

Dr. Halsey didn't expect physical contact. The subject's father must have taught him the ritual, or the boy was highly imitative.

She shook his hand and was surprised by the strength in his miniscule grip. "It's very nice to meet you."

She knelt so she was at his level. "I wanted to ask you what you were doing?"

"Winning," he said.

Dr. Halsey smiled. He was unafraid of her . . . and she doubted that he'd have any trouble pushing her off the hill, either.

"You like games," she said. "So do I."

He sighed. "Yeah, but they made me play chess last week. That got boring. It's too easy to win." He took a quick breath. "Or—can we play gravball? They don't let me play gravball anymore, but maybe if you tell them it's okay?"

"I have a different game I want you to try," she told him. "Look." She reached into her purse and brought out a metal disk. She turned it over and it gleamed in the sun. "People used coins like this for currency a long time ago, when Earth was the only planet we lived on."

His eyes fixed on the object. He reached for it.

Dr. Halsey moved it away, continuing to flip it between her thumb and index finger. "Each side is different. Do you see? One has the face of a man with long hair. The other side has a bird, called an eagle, and it's holding—"

"Arrows," John said.

"Yes. Good." His eyesight must be exceptional to see such detail so far away. "We'll use this coin in our game. If you win you can keep it."

John tore his gaze from the coin and looked at her again, squinted, then said, "Okay. I always win, though. That's why they won't let me play gravball anymore."

"I'm sure you do."

"What's the game?"

"It's very simple. I toss the coin like this." She flicked her wrist, snapped her thumb, and the coin arced, spinning into the air, and landed in the sand. "Next time, though, before it lands, I want you to tell me if it will fall with the face of the man showing or with the eagle holding the arrows."

"I got it." John tensed, bent his knees, and then his eyes seemed to lose their focus on her and the coin.

Dr. Halsey picked up the quarter. "Ready?"

John gave a slight nod.

She tossed it, making sure there was plenty of spin.

John's eyes watched it with that strange distant gaze. He tracked it as it went up, and then down toward the ground—his hand snapped out and snatched the quarter out of the air.

He held up his closed hand. "Eagle!" he shouted.

She tentatively reached for his hand and peeled open the tiny fist.

The quarter lay in his palm: the eagle shining in the orange sun.

Was it possible that he saw which side was up when he grabbed it . . . or more improbably, could have picked which side he wanted? She hoped the Lieutenant had recorded that. She should have told him to keep the data pad trained on her.

John retracted his hand. "I get to keep it, right? That's what you said."

"Yes, you can keep it, John." She smiled at him—then stopped.

She shouldn't have used his name. That was a bad sign. She couldn't afford the luxury of liking her test subjects. She mentally stepped away from her feelings. She had to maintain a professional distance. She had to . . . because in a few months Number 117 might not be alive.

"Can we play again?"

Dr. Halsey stood and took a step back. "That was the only one I had, I'm afraid. I have to leave now,"

she told him. "Go back and play with your friends."

"Thanks." He ran back, shouting to the other boys, "Look!"

Dr. Halsey strode to the Lieutenant. The sun reflecting off the asphalt felt too hot, and she suddenly didn't want to be outside. She wanted to be back in the ship, where it was cool and dark. She wanted to get off this planet.

She stepped under the canvas awning and said to the Lieutenant, "Tell me you recorded that."

He handed her the data pad and looked puzzled. "Yes. What was it all about?'

Dr. Halsey checked the recording and then sent a copy ahead to Toran on the Han for safekeeping.

"We screen these subjects for certain genetic markers," she said. "Strength, agility, even predispositions for aggression and intellect. But we couldn't remote test for everything. We don't test for luck."

"Luck?" Lieutenant Keyes asked. "You believe in luck, Doctor?"

"Of course not," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "But we have one hundred and fifty test subjects to consider, and facilities and funding for only half that number. It's a simple mathematical elimination, Lieutenant. That child was one of the lucky ones—either that or he is extraordinarily fast.

Either way, he's in."

"I don't understand," Lieutenant Keyes said, and he started fiddling with the pipe he carried in his pocket.

"I hope that continues, Lieutenant, " Dr. Halsey replied quietly. "For your sake, I hope you never understand what we're doing."

She looked one last time at Number 117—at John. He was having so much fun, running and laughing.

For a moment she envied the boy's innocence; hers was long dead. Life or death, lucky or not, she was condemning this boy to a great deal of pain and suffering.

But it had to be done.


	4. Chapter 3

I do not own this story it is owned by Eric Nylund

CHAPTER THREE

2300 Hours September 23, 2517 (Military Calendar ) / Epsilon Eridani System, Reach Military Complex,

planet Reach

Dr. Halsey stood on a platform in the center of the amphitheater. Concentric rings of slate-gray risers surrounded her—empty for now. Overhead spotlights focused and reflected off her white lab coat, but she still was cold.

She should feel safe here. Reach was one of the UNSC's largest industrial bases, ringed with high-orbit gunbatteries, space docks, and a fleet of heavily-armed capital ships. On the planet's surface were Marine and Navy Special Warfare training grounds, OCS schools, and between her underground facilities and the surface were three hundred meters of hardened steel and concrete. The room where she now stood could withstand a direct hit from an 80-megaton nuke.

So why did she feel so vulnerable?

Dr. Halsey knew what she had to do. Her duty. It was for the greater good. All humanity would be served . . . even if a tiny handful of them had to suffer for it. Still, when she turned inward and faced her complicity in this—she was revolted by what she saw.

She wished she still had Lieutenant Keyes. He had proven himself a capable assistant during the last month. But he had begun to understand the nature of the project—at least seen the edges of the truth. Dr.

Halsey had him reassigned to the Magellan with a commission to full Lieutenant for his troubles.

"Are you ready, Doctor?" a disembodied woman's voice asked.

"Almost, Déjà." Dr. Halsey sighed. "Please summon Chief Petty Officer Mendez. I'd like you both present when I address them."

Déjà's hologram flicked on next to Dr. Halsey. The AI had been specifically created for Dr. Halsey's SPARTAN project. She took the appearance of a Greek goddess: barefoot, wrapped in the toga, motes of light dancing about her luminous white hair. She held a clay tablet in her left hand. Binary cuneiform markings scrolled across the tablet. Dr. Halsey couldn't help but marvel at the AI's chosen form; each AI "self-assigned" a holographic appearance, and each was unique.

One of the doors at the top of the amphitheater opened and Chief Petty Officer Mendez strode down the stairs. He wore a black dress uniform, his chest awash with silver and gold stars and a rainbow of campaign ribbons. His close-shorn hair had a touch of gray at the temples. He was neither tall nor muscular; he looked so ordinary for a man who had seen so much combat . . . except for his stride. The man moved with a slow grace as if he were walking in half gravity. He paused before Dr. Halsey, awaiting further instructions.

"Up here, please," she told him, gesturing to the stairs on her right.

Mendez mounted the steps of the platform and then stood at ease next to her.

"You have read my psychological evaluations?" Déjà asked Dr. Halsey.

"Yes. They were quite thorough," she said. "Thank you."

"And?"

"I'm forgoing your recommendations, Déjà. I'm going to tell them the truth."

Mendez gave a nearly inaudible grunt of approval—one of the most verbose acknowledgments Dr.

Halsey had heard from him. As a hand-to-hand combat and physical-training DI, Mendez was the best in the Navy. As a conversationalist, however, he left a great deal to be desired.

"The truth has risks," Déjà cautioned.

"So do lies," Dr. Halsey replied. "Any story fabricated to motivate the children—claiming their parents were taken and killed by pirates, or by a plague that devastated their planet—if they learned the truth later, they would turn against us."

"It is a legitimate concern," conceded Déjà, and then she consulted her tablet. "May I suggest selective neural paralysis? It produces a targeted amnesia—"

"A memory loss that may leak into other parts of the brain. No," Dr. Halsey said, "this will be dangerous enough for them even with intact minds."

Dr. Halsey clicked on her microphone. "Bring them in now."

"Aye aye," a voice replied from the speakers in the ceiling.

"They'll adapt," Dr. Halsey told Déjà. "Or they won't, and they will be untrainable and unsuitable for the project. Either way I just want to get this over with."

Four sets of double doors at the top tier of the amphitheater swung open. Seventy-five children marched in—each accompanied by a handler, a Naval drill instructor in camouflage pattern fatigues.

The children had circles of fatigue around their eyes. They had all been collected, rushed here through Slipstream space, and only recently brought out of cryo sleep. The shock of their ordeal must be hitting them hard, Halsey realized. She stifled a pang of regret.

When they had been seated in the risers, Dr. Halsey cleared her throat and spoke: "As per Naval Code 45812, you are hereby conscripted into the UNSC Special Project, codenamed SPARTAN II."

She paused; the words stuck in her windpipe. How could they possibly understand this? She barely understood the justifications and ethics behind this program.

They looked so confused. A few tried to stand and leave, but their handlers placed firm hands on their shoulders and pushed them back down.

Six years old . . . this was too much for them to digest. But she had to make them understand, explain it in simple terms that they could grasp.

Dr. Halsey took a tentative step forward. "You have been called upon to serve," she explained. "You will be trained . . . and you will become the best we can make of you. You will be the protectors of Earth and all her colonies."

A handful of the children sat up straighter, no longer entirely frightened, but now interested.

Dr. Halsey spotted John, subject Number 117, the first boy she had confirmed as a viable candidate. He wrinkled his forehead, confused, but he listened with rapt attention.

"This will be hard to understand, but you cannot return to your parents."

The children stirred. Their handlers kept a firm grip on their shoulders.

"This place will become your home," Dr. Halsey said in as soothing a voice as she could muster. "Your fellowtrainees will be your family now. The training will be difficult. There will be a great deal of hardship on the road ahead, but I know you will all make it."

Patriotic words, but they rang hollow in her ears. She had wanted to tell them the truth—but how could she?

Not all of them would make it. "Acceptable losses," the Office of Naval Intelligence representative had assured her. None of it was acceptable.

"Rest now," Dr. Halsey said to them. "We begin tomorrow."

She turned to Mendez. "Have the children . . . the trainees escorted to their barracks. Feed them and put them to bed."

"Yes, ma'am," Mendez said. "Fall out!" he shouted.

The children rose—at the urging of their handlers. John 117 stood, but he kept his gaze on Dr. Halsey and remained stoic. Many of the subjects seemed stunned, a few had trembling lips—but none of them cried.

These were indeed the right children for the project. Dr. Halsey only hoped that she had half their courage when the time came.

"Keep them busy tomorrow," she told Mendez and Déjà. "Keep them from thinking about what we've just done to them."


	5. Chapter 4: Boot

I do not own this story it is owned by Eric Nylund

CHAPTER FOUR

2300 Hours September 23, 2517 (Military Calendar ) / Epsilon Eridani System, Reach Military Complex,

planet Reach

Dr. Halsey stood on a platform in the center of the amphitheater. Concentric rings of slate-gray risers surrounded her—empty for now. Overhead spotlights focused and reflected off her white lab coat, but she still was cold.

She should feel safe here. Reach was one of the UNSC's largest industrial bases, ringed with high-orbit gunbatteries, space docks, and a fleet of heavily-armed capital ships. On the planet's surface were Marine and Navy Special Warfare training grounds, OCS schools, and between her underground facilities and the surface were three hundred meters of hardened steel and concrete. The room where she now stood could withstand a direct hit from an 80-megaton nuke.

So why did she feel so vulnerable?

Dr. Halsey knew what she had to do. Her duty. It was for the greater good. All humanity would be served . . . even if a tiny handful of them had to suffer for it. Still, when she turned inward and faced her complicity in this—she was revolted by what she saw.

She wished she still had Lieutenant Keyes. He had proven himself a capable assistant during the last month. But he had begun to understand the nature of the project—at least seen the edges of the truth. Dr.

Halsey had him reassigned to the Magellan with a commission to full Lieutenant for his troubles.

"Are you ready, Doctor?" a disembodied woman's voice asked.

"Almost, Déjà." Dr. Halsey sighed. "Please summon Chief Petty Officer Mendez. I'd like you both present when I address them."

Déjà's hologram flicked on next to Dr. Halsey. The AI had been specifically created for Dr. Halsey's SPARTAN project. She took the appearance of a Greek goddess: barefoot, wrapped in the toga, motes of light dancing about her luminous white hair. She held a clay tablet in her left hand. Binary cuneiform markings scrolled across the tablet. Dr. Halsey couldn't help but marvel at the AI's chosen form; each AI "self-assigned" a holographic appearance, and each was unique.

One of the doors at the top of the amphitheater opened and Chief Petty Officer Mendez strode down the stairs. He wore a black dress uniform, his chest awash with silver and gold stars and a rainbow of campaign ribbons. His close-shorn hair had a touch of gray at the temples. He was neither tall nor muscular; he looked so ordinary for a man who had seen so much combat . . . except for his stride. The man moved with a slow grace as if he were walking in half gravity. He paused before Dr. Halsey, awaiting further instructions.

"Up here, please," she told him, gesturing to the stairs on her right.

Mendez mounted the steps of the platform and then stood at ease next to her.

"You have read my psychological evaluations?" Déjà asked Dr. Halsey.

"Yes. They were quite thorough," she said. "Thank you."

"And?"

"I'm forgoing your recommendations, Déjà. I'm going to tell them the truth."

Mendez gave a nearly inaudible grunt of approval—one of the most verbose acknowledgments Dr.

Halsey had heard from him. As a hand-to-hand combat and physical-training DI, Mendez was the best in the Navy. As a conversationalist, however, he left a great deal to be desired.

"The truth has risks," Déjà cautioned.

"So do lies," Dr. Halsey replied. "Any story fabricated to motivate the children—claiming their parents were taken and killed by pirates, or by a plague that devastated their planet—if they learned the truth later, they would turn against us."

"It is a legitimate concern," conceded Déjà, and then she consulted her tablet. "May I suggest selective neural paralysis? It produces a targeted amnesia—"

"A memory loss that may leak into other parts of the brain. No," Dr. Halsey said, "this will be dangerous enough for them even with intact minds."

Dr. Halsey clicked on her microphone. "Bring them in now."

"Aye aye," a voice replied from the speakers in the ceiling.

"They'll adapt," Dr. Halsey told Déjà. "Or they won't, and they will be untrainable and unsuitable for the project. Either way I just want to get this over with."

Four sets of double doors at the top tier of the amphitheater swung open. Seventy-five children marched in—each accompanied by a handler, a Naval drill instructor in camouflage pattern fatigues.

The children had circles of fatigue around their eyes. They had all been collected, rushed here through Slipstream space, and only recently brought out of cryo sleep. The shock of their ordeal must be hitting them hard, Halsey realized. She stifled a pang of regret.

When they had been seated in the risers, Dr. Halsey cleared her throat and spoke: "As per Naval Code 45812, you are hereby conscripted into the UNSC Special Project, codenamed SPARTAN II."

She paused; the words stuck in her windpipe. How could they possibly understand this? She barely understood the justifications and ethics behind this program.

They looked so confused. A few tried to stand and leave, but their handlers placed firm hands on their shoulders and pushed them back down.

Six years old . . . this was too much for them to digest. But she had to make them understand, explain it in simple terms that they could grasp.

Dr. Halsey took a tentative step forward. "You have been called upon to serve," she explained. "You will be trained . . . and you will become the best we can make of you. You will be the protectors of Earth and all her colonies."

A handful of the children sat up straighter, no longer entirely frightened, but now interested.

Dr. Halsey spotted John, subject Number 117, the first boy she had confirmed as a viable candidate. He wrinkled his forehead, confused, but he listened with rapt attention.

"This will be hard to understand, but you cannot return to your parents."

The children stirred. Their handlers kept a firm grip on their shoulders.

"This place will become your home," Dr. Halsey said in as soothing a voice as she could muster. "Your fellowtrainees will be your family now. The training will be difficult. There will be a great deal of hardship on the road ahead, but I know you will all make it."

Patriotic words, but they rang hollow in her ears. She had wanted to tell them the truth—but how could she?

Not all of them would make it. "Acceptable losses," the Office of Naval Intelligence representative had assured her. None of it was acceptable.

"Rest now," Dr. Halsey said to them. "We begin tomorrow."

She turned to Mendez. "Have the children . . . the trainees escorted to their barracks. Feed them and put them to bed."

"Yes, ma'am," Mendez said. "Fall out!" he shouted.

The children rose—at the urging of their handlers. John 117 stood, but he kept his gaze on Dr. Halsey and remained stoic. Many of the subjects seemed stunned, a few had trembling lips—but none of them cried.

These were indeed the right children for the project. Dr. Halsey only hoped that she had half their courage when the time came.

"Keep them busy tomorrow," she told Mendez and Déjà. "Keep them from thinking about what we've just done to them."


	6. Chapter 5

I do not own this story it is owned by Eric Nylund

CHAPTER FIVE

0630 Hours, July 12, 2519 (Military Calendar)

Epsilon Eridani System, Reach Military Wilderness Training Preserve, planet Reach John held on tight as the dropship accelerated up and over a jagged snowcapped mountain range. The sun peeked over the horizon and washed the white snow with pinks and oranges. The other members of his unit pressed their faces to the windows and watched.

Sam sat next to him and looked outside. "Nice place for a snowball fight."

"You'll lose," Kelly said. She leaned over John's shoulder to get a better look at the terrain. "I'm a dead aim with snowballs." She scratched the stubble of her shorn hair.

"Dead is right," John muttered. "Especially when you load them with rocks."

CPO Mendez stepped from the cockpit into the passenger compartment. The trainees stood and snapped to attention. "At ease, and sit down." The silver at Mendez's temples had grown to a band across the side of his closely shaved hair, but if anything he had gotten stronger and tougher since John had first laid eyes on him two years ago.

"Today's mission will be simple for a change." Mendez's voice easily penetrated the roar of the dropship's engines. He handed a stack of papers to Kelly. "Pass these out, Recruit."

"Sir!" She saluted smartly and handed one paper to each of the seventy-five children in the squad.

"These are portions of maps of the local region. You will be set down by yourselves. You will then navigate to a marked extraction point and we will pick you up there."

John turned his map over. It was just one part of a much larger map—no drop or extraction point marked. How was he supposed to navigate without a reference point? But he knew this was part of the mission, to answer that question on his own.

"One more thing," Mendez said. "The last trainee to make it to the extraction point will be left behind."

He glanced out a window. "And it's a very long walk back."

John didn't like it. He wasn't going to lose, but he didn't want anyone else to lose, either. The thought of Kelly or Sam or any of the others marching all the way back made him uneasy . . . if they could make it all the way back alone over those mountains.

"First drop in three minutes," Mendez barked. "Trainee 117, you're up first."

"Sir! Yes, sir!" John replied.

He glanced out the window and scanned the terrain. There was a ring of jagged mountains, a valley thick withcedars, and a ribbon of silver—a river that fed into a lake.

John nudged Sam, pointed to the river, then jerked his thumb toward the lake.

Sam nodded, then pulled Kelly aside and pointed out the window. Kelly and Sam moved quickly down the line of seated trainees.

The ship decelerated. John felt his stomach rise as they dropped toward the ground.

"Trainee 117: front and center." Mendez stepped to the rear of the compartment as the ship's tail split and a ramp extended. Cold air blasted into the ship. He patted John on the shoulder. "Watch out for wolves in the forest, 117."

"Yes, sir!" John looked over his shoulder at the others.

His teammates gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Good, everyone got his message.

He ran down the ramp and into the forest. The dropship's engines roared to life and it rose high into the cloudless sky. He zipped up his jacket. He wore only fatigues, boots, and a heavy parka—not exactly the gear he'd pack for a prolonged stay in the wilderness.

John started toward one particularly sharp peak he had spotted from the air; the river lay in that direction. He'd follow it downstream and meet the others at the lake.

He marched through the woods until he heard the gurgling of a stream. He got close enough to see the direction of the flow, then headed back into the forest. Mendez's exercises often had a twist to them—

stun mines on the obstacle course, snipers with paint pellet guns during parade drills. And with the Chief up in that dropship, John wasn't about to reveal his position unless he had a good reason.

He passed a blueberry bush and took the time to strip it before he moved on.

This was the first time in months he had been alone and could just think. He popped a handful of berries into his mouth and chewed.

He thought about the place that had been his home, his parents . . . but more and more that seemed like a dream. John knew it wasn't, and that he had once had a different life. But this was the life he wanted. He was a soldier. He had an important job to train for. Mendez said they were the Navy's best and brightest.

That they were the only hope for peace. He liked that.

Before, he never knew what he would be when he grew up. He never really thought about anything other than watching vids and playing—nothing had been a challenge.

Now every day was a challenge and a new adventure.

John knew more things, thanks to Déjà, than he ever thought he could have learned at his old school: algebra and trigonometry, the history of a hundred battles and kings. He could string a trip line, fire a rifle, and treat a chest wound. Mendez had shown him how to be strong . . . not only with his body, but strong with his head, too.

He had a family here: Kelly, Sam, and all the others in his squad.

The thought of his squadmates brought him back to Mendez's mission—one of them was going to be left behind. There had to be a way to get them all home. John decided he wasn't going to leave if he couldn't figure it out.

He arrived at the edge of the lake; stood and listened.

John heard an owl hooting in the distance. He marched toward the sound. "Hey, owl," he said when he was close.

Sam stepped out from behind a tree and grinned. "That's 'Chief Owl' to you, Trainee."

They walked around the circumference of the lake, gathering the rest of the children in the squad. John counted them to make sure: sixty-seven.

"Let's get the map pieces together," Kelly suggested.

"Good idea," John said. "Sam, take three and scout the area. I don't want any of the Chief's surprises sneaking up on us."

"Right." Sam picked Fhajad, James, and Linda and then the four of them took off into the brush.

Kelly collected the map pieces and settled in the shade of an ancient cedar tree. "Some of these don't belong, and some are copies," she said, and she laid them out. "Yes, here's an edge. Got it—this is the lake, the river, and here . . . " She pointed to a distant patch of green. "That's got to be the extraction point." She shook her head and frowned. "If the legend on this map is right, it's a full day's hike, though. We better get started."

John whistled and a moment later Sam and his scouts returned.

"Let's move out," John said.

No one argued. They fell into line behind Kelly as she navigated. Sam blazed the trail ahead. He had the best eyes and ears. Several times he stopped and signaled everyone to freeze or hide—but it turned out to be just a rabbit or a bird.

After several miles of marching, Sam dropped back. He whispered to John, "This is too easy. It's not like any of the Chief's normal field exercises."

John nodded. "I've been thinking that, too. Just keep your eyes and ears sharp."

They stopped at noon to stretch and eat berries they had gathered along the trail.

Fhajad spoke up. "I want to know one thing," he said. He paused to wipe the sweat off his dark skin.

"We're going to get to the extraction point at the same time. So who's getting left behind? We should decide now."

"Draw straws," someone suggested.

"No," John said, and stood. "No one's being left behind. We're going to figure a way to get all of us out."

"How?" Kelly asked, scratching her head. "Mendez said—"

"I know what he said. But there's got to be a way—I just haven't thought of one yet. Even if it has to be me that stays behind—I'll make sure everyone gets back to the base." John started marching again.

"Come on, we're wasting time."

The others fell in behind him.

The shadows of the trees lengthened and melted together and the sun turned the edge of the sky red.

Kelly halted and motioned for everyone else to stop. "We're almost there," she whispered.

"Me and Sam will scout it out," John said. "Everyone fall out . . . and keep quiet."

The rest of the children silently followed his orders.

John and Sam crept through the underbrush and then hunkered down at the edge of a meadow.

The dropship sat in the center of the grassy field; her floodlights illuminated everything for thirty meters.

Six men sat on the open launch ramp, smoking cigarettes and passing a canteen between themselves.

Sam motioned to drop back. "You recognize them?" he whispered.

"No. You?"

Sam shook his head. "They're not in uniform. They don't look like any soldiers I've ever seen. Maybe they're rebels. Maybe they stole the dropship and killed the Chief."

"No way," John said. "Nothing can kill the Chief. But one thing's for sure: I don't think we can just walk up there and get a free ride back to the base. Let's go back."

They crept back into the woods and then explained the situation to the others.

"What do you want to do?" Kelly asked him.

John wondered why she thought he had an answer. He looked around and saw everyone was watching him, waiting for him to speak. He shifted on his feet. He had to say something.

"Okay . . . we don't know who these men are or what they'll do when they see us. So we find out."

The children nodded, seeming to think this was the right thing to do.

"Here's how," John told them. "First, I'll need a rabbit."

"That's me," Kelly said, and sprang to her feet. "I'm the fastest."

"Good," John said. "You go to the edge of the meadow—and then let them see you. I'll go along and hide nearby and watch. In case anything happens to you, I'll report back to the others."

She nodded.

"Then you lure a few back here. Run right past this spot. Sam, you'll be out in the open, pretending like you've broken your leg."

"Gotcha," Sam said. He walked over to Fhajad and had him scrape his shin with his boot. Blood welled from the wound.

"The rest of you," John said, "wait in the woods in a big circle. If they try to do anything but help Sam . . . " John made a fist with his right hand and slammed it into his open palm. "Remember the moose and the wolves?"

They all nodded and grinned. They had seen that lesson many times in Déjà's classroom.

"Get some rocks," John told them.

Kelly stripped off her parka, stretched her legs and knees. "Okay," she said, "let's do this."

Sam lay down, clutching his leg. "Oooh—it hurts, help me."

"Don't overdo it," John said, and kicked some dirt on him. "Or they'll know it's a setup."

John and Kelly then crept toward the meadow and halted a few meters form the edge. He whispered to her, "If you want me to be the rabbit . . . "

She slugged him in the shoulder—hard. "You think I can't do my part?"

"I take it back," he said, rubbing his shoulder.

John moved off ten meters to her flank, took cover, and watched.

Kelly emerged at the edge of the meadow, stepping into the illumination from the dropship's floodlights.

"Hey!" she said, and waved her arms over her head. "Over here. You got any food? I'm starving."

The men slowly stood and pulled out stun batons. "There's one," John heard them whisper. "I'll get her.

The rest of you stay here and wait for the others."

The man cautiously approached Kelly, a stun baton held behind his back so she couldn't see it. She stayed put and waited for him to get closer.

"Hang on a sec," she said. "I dropped my jacket back there. I'll be right back." She turned and ran. The man leaped after her, but she had already vanished into the shadows.

"Stop!"

"This will be too easy," one of other men said. "Kids won't know what hit them." Another remarked,

"Fish in a barrel."

John had heard enough. He ran after Kelly, but realized that neither he nor the other man had a chance to catch her. He halted when he got close to where Sam lay.

The man stopped. He looked around, his eyes not quite adjusted to the dark, then spotted Sam on the ground holding his bloody leg.

"Please, help me," Sam whimpered. "It's broken."

"I got your broken leg right here, kid." The man raised his baton.

John picked up a rock. He threw it, but missed.

The man spun around. "Who's there?"

Sam rolled to his feet and darted away. There was a rustling in the forest, then a hail of stones whistled through the trees, pelting the man.

Kelly appeared and sidearmed a rock as hard as she could—and hit the man dead center in the forehead.

He toppled and slammed into the ground.

The other children moved in. "What do we do with him?" Sam asked.

"It's just an exercise, right?" Fhajad said. "He has to be with Mendez."

John rolled the man over. A trickle of blood snaked from his head into his eye socket.

"You heard him," John whispered. "You saw what he was going to do to Sam. Mendez or our trainers would never do that to us. Ever. He's got no uniform. No insignias. He's not one of us."

John kicked the man in the face and then the ribs. The man reflexively curled into a ball. "Get his baton."

Sam grabbed the weapon. He kicked him, too.

"Now we go back and get the others," John told them. "Kelly, you be the rabbit again. Just get them to the edge of the clearing. Duck out, and let us do the rest."

She nodded and started back to the meadow. The rest of the squad fanned out, collecting rocks along the way.

After a minute Kelly stepped onto the grassy field and shouted, "That guy fell and hit his head. Over here!"

The five remaining men stood and ran toward her.

When they were close enough, John whistled.

The air suddenly swarmed with stones. The men held up their hands and tried to protect themselves.

They dropped and covered their heads.

John whistled again and sixty-seven children charged screaming toward the bewildered men. The men got up to defend themselves. They looked stunned—like they couldn't believe what they were seeing.

Sam smashed his baton over a man's head. Fhajad was hit squarely in the face by one man's fist, and he fell.

The men were overwhelmed by a wave of flesh, beaten to the ground with fists and stones and boots until they no longer moved.

John stood over their bleeding bodies. He was mad. They would have hurt him and his squad. He wanted to kick in their skulls. He took a deep breath and then exhaled. He had better things to do and bigger problems to figure out—anger would have to wait.

"Want to call Mendez now?" Sam asked as he pulled Fhajad shakily to his feet.

"Not yet," John told him. He marched onto the dropship. No one else was on board.

John accessed the COM system and opened the mail link. He linked up with Déjà. Her face appeared, a scratchy hologram hovering over the terminal.

"Good evening, Trainee 117," she said. "Do you have a homework question?"

"Kind of," he replied. "One of CPO Mendez's assignments."

"Ah." After moment's pause she said, "Very well."

"I'm in a Pelican dropship. There's no pilot, but I need to get home. Teach me to fly it, please."

Déjà shook her head. "You are not rated to fly that craft, Trainee. But I can help. Do you see the winged icon in the corner of your screen? Tap it three times."

John tapped it and a hundred icons and displays filled the screen.

"Touch the green arrows at nine o'clock twice," she told him.

He did and then the words autopilot activated flashed onscreen.

"I have control now," Déjà said. "I will get you home."

"Hang on a second," John said and ran outside. "Everyone onboard—double time!"

The children ran onto the ship.

Kelley paused and asked, "Who's getting left behind?"

"No one," John said. "Just get in." He made sure he was the last on the ship, then said, "Okay, Déjà, get out us out of here."

The dropship's jets roared to life and it rose into the sky.

John stood at attention in Chief Petty Officer Mendez's office. He had never been in here. No one had.

A trickle of sweat dripped down his back. The dark wood paneling and the smell of cigar smoke made him feel claustrophobic.

Mendez glowered at John as he read the report on his clipboard.

The door opened and Dr. Halsey walked in. Mendez stood, gave her a curt nod and then sat back in his padded chair.

"Hello, John," Dr. Halsey said. She sat across from Mendez, crossed her legs, and then adjusted her gray skirt.

"Dr. Halsey," John replied instantly. He saluted. None of the other grown-ups called him by his first name, ever. He didn't understand why she did.

"Trainee 117," Mendez snapped. "Tell me again why you stole UNSC property . . . and why you attacked the men I had assigned to guard it."

John wanted to explain that he was just doing what had to be done. That he was sorry. That he would do anything to make it up. But John knew the Chief hated whiners, almost as much as he hated excuses.

"Sir," John said. "The guards were out of uniform. No insignia. They failed to identify themselves, sir!"

"Hmm," Mendez mused over the report again. "So it seems. And the ship?"

"I took my squad home, sir. I was the last onboard—so if anyone should have been left—"

"I didn't ask for a passenger list, Crewman." His voice softened to a growl and he turned to Dr. Halsey.

"What are we going to do with this one?"

"Do?" She pushed her glasses higher on her nose and examined John. "I think that's obvious, Chief.

Make him a Squad Leader."


	7. NOTES

I do not own this story it is owned by Eric Nylund

Too everyone this is not my own creation this is the actual book By Eric S. Nylund I do not own any of this I'm simply putting this up so people can read it for the ones who don't own the book/s or can't find it online or any other reason I'm not getting any gain from this I'm doing it for people who don't know the lore of halo.

So too the guest who posted a review this is why I own all the books and have read them all a lot of times and enjoy them. If fanfiction want to take it down they will


	8. Chapter 6

I do not own this story it is owned by Eric Nylund

CHAPTER SIX

1130 Hours March 09, 2525 (Military Calendar)

Epsilon Eridani System, Office of Naval Intelligence Medical Facility, in orbit around planet Reach

"I want that transmission decoded now," Dr. Halsey snapped at Déjà.

"The encryption scheme is extremely complex," replied Déjà with a hint of irritation in her normally glass-smooth voice. "I don't even know why they bothered. Who else but Beta-5 Division even has the resources to use this data?"

"Spare me the banter, Déjà. I'm not in the mood. Just concentrate on the decryption."

"Yes, Doctor."

Dr. Halsey paced across the antiseptic white tile of the Observation Room. One side of the room was filled with floor-to-ceiling terminals that monitored the vital signs of the children— test subjects, she corrected herself. They displayed drug uptake rates and winking green, blue, and red status indicators: EKGs, pulse rates, and a hundred other pieces of medical data.

The other side of the observation room overlooked dozens of translucent domes, windows into the surgical bays on the level below. Each bay was a sealed environment, staffed with the best surgeons and biotechnicians that the Office of Naval Intelligence could drum up. The bays had been scrubbed and irradiated and were in the final preparation stages to receive and hold the special biohazardous materials.

"Done," Déjà announced. "The file awaits your inspection, Doctor."

Dr. Halsey stopped her pacing and sat. "On my glasses, please, Déjà."

Her glasses scanned retinal and brain patterns, and the security barrier of the file lifted. With a blink of her eyes, she opened the file.

It read:

United Nations Space Command Priority Transmission 09872H-98

Encryption Code:Red

Public Key:file /excised access Omega

From:Admiral Ysionris Jeromi, Chief Medical Officer, UNSC Research Station Hopeful To:Dr. Catherine Elizabeth Halsey M.D., Ph.D., special civilian consultant (civilian Identification Number: 10141-026-SRB4695)

Subject:Mitigating factors and relative biological risks associated with queried experimental medical procedures.

Classification:RESTRICTED (BGX Directive)

/start file

Catherine,

I am afraid further analysis has yielded no viable alternatives to mitigate the risks in your proposed

"hypothetical" experimentation. I have, however, attached the synopsis of my team's findings as well as all relevant case studies. Perhaps you will find them useful.

I hope it is a hypothetical study . . . the use of Binobo chimpanzees in your proposal is troublesome.

These animals are expensive and rare now since they are no longer bred in captivity. I would hate to see such valuable specimens wasted in some Section Three project.

Best,

y.j.

She winced at the veiled rebuke in the Admiral's communiqué. He had never approved of her decision to work with the Office of Naval Intelligence, and made his disappointment with his star pupil evident every time she visited Hopeful.

It was hard enough to justify the morality of the course she was about to embark upon. Jeromi's disapproval only made her decision more difficult.

Dr. Halsey gritted her teeth and returned to the report.

Synopsis of chemical/ biological risks

WARNING: the following procedures are classified level-3 experimental. Primate test subjects must be cleared through UNSC Quartermaster General Office code: OBF34. Follow gamma code biohazard disposal protocol.

1\. Carbide ceramic ossification: advanced material grafting onto skeletal structures to make bones virtually unbreakable. Recommended coverage not to exceed 3 percent total bone mass because of significant white blood cell necrosis. Specific risk for pre- and near-postpubescent adolescents: skeletal growth spurts may cause irreparable bone pulverization. See attached case studies.

2\. Muscular enhancement injections: protein complex is injected intramuscularly to increase tissue density and decrease lactase recovery time. Risk: 5 percent of test subjects experience a fatal cardiac volume increase.

3\. Catalytic thyroid implant: platinum pellet containing human growth hormone catalyst is implanted in the thyroid to boost growth of skeletal and muscle tissues. Risk: rare instances of elephantiasis.

Suppressed sexual drive.

4\. Occipital capillary reversal: submergence and boosted blood vessel flow beneath the rods and cones of subject's retina. Produces a marked visual perception increase. Risk: retinal rejection and detachment.

Permanent blindness. See attached autopsy reports.

5\. Superconducting fibrification of neural dendrites: alteration of bioelectrical nerve transduction to shielded electronic transduction. Three hundred percent increase in subject reflexes. Anecdotal evidence of marked increase in intelligence, memory, and creativity. Risk: significant instances of Parkinson's disease and Fletcher's syndrome.

/end file

PressENTER to open linked attachments.

Dr. Halsey closed the file. She erased all traces of it—sent Déjà to track the file pathways all the way back to Hopeful and destroy Admiral Jeromi's notes and files relative to this incident.

She removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"I'm sorry," Déjà said. "I, too, had hoped there would be some new process to lower the risks."

Dr. Halsey sighed. "I have doubts, Déjà. I thought the reasons so compelling when we first started project SPARTAN. Now? I . . . I just don't know."

"I have been over the ONI projections of Outer Colony stability three times, Doctor. Their conclusion is correct: massive rebellion within twenty years unless drastic military action is taken. And you know the

'drastic military action' the brass would like. The SPARTANS are our only option to avoid overwhelming civilian losses. They will be the perfect pinpoint strike force. They can prevent a civil war."

"Only if they survive to fulfill that mission," Dr. Halsey countered. "We should delay the procedures.

More research needs to be done. We could use the time to work on MJOLNIR. We need time to—"

"There is another reason to proceed expeditiously," Déjà said. "Although I am loath to bring this to your attention, I must. If the Office of Naval Intelligence detects a delay in their prize project, you will likely be replaced by someone who harbors . . . fewer doubts. And regrettably for the children, most likely someone less qualified."

"I hate this." Dr. Halsey got up and strode to the fire exit. "And sometimes, Déjà, I hate you, too." She left the observation room.

Mendez was waiting for her in the hallway.

"Walk with me, Chief," she said.

He followed without a word as they took the stairs to the pre-op wing of the hospital.

They entered room 117. John lay in bed and an IV drip was attached to his arm. His head had been shaved and incision vectors had been lasered onto his entire body. Despite these indignities, Dr. Halsey marveled at what a spectacular physical specimen he had grown into. Fourteen years old and he had the body of an eighteen-year-old Olympic athlete, and a mind the equal of any Naval Academy honors graduate.

Dr. Halsey forced the best smile she could muster. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, ma'am," John replied groggily. "The nurse said the sedation would take effect soon. I'm fighting it to see how long I can stay awake." His eyelids fluttered. "It's not easy."

John spotted Mendez and he struggled to sit up and salute, but failed. "I know this is one of the Chief's exercises. But I don't know what the twist is. Can you tell me, Dr. Halsey? Just this time? How do I win?"

Mendez looked away.

Dr. Halsey leaned closer to John as he closed his eyes and started to breathe deeply.

"I'll tell you how to win, John," she whispered. "You have to survive."


	9. Chapter 7

I do not own this story it is owned by Eric Nylund

CHAPTER Seven

0000 Hours March 30, 2525 (Military Calendar)

UNSC Carrier Atlas en route to the Lambda

Serpentis system

"And so we commit the bodies of our fallen brothers to space."

Mendez solemnly closed his eyes for a moment, the ceremony completed. He pressed a control and the ash canisters moved slowly into the ejection tubes . . . and the void beyond.

John stood rigidly at attention. The carrier's missile launch bays—normally cramped, overcrowded, and bustling with activity—were unusually quiet. The Atlas 's firing deck had been cleared of munitions and crew. Long, unadorned black banners now hung from the bay's overhead gantries.

"Honors . . . ten hut !" Mendez barked.

John and the other surviving Spartans saluted in unison.

"Duty," Mendez said. "Honor and self sacrifice. Death does not diminish these qualities in a soldier. We shall remember."

A series of thumps resounded through the Atlas 's hull as the canisters were hurled into space.

The view screen flickered and displayed a field of stars. The canisters appeared one by one, quickly falling behind the carrier as it continued on its course.

John watched. With each of the stainless-steel cylinders that drifted by, he felt that he was losing a part of himself. It felt like leaving his people behind.

Mendez's face might as well been chiseled from stone, for all the emotion it showed. He finished his protracted salute and then said, "Crewmen, dismissed."

Not everything had been lost. John glanced around the launch chamber; Sam, Kelly, and thirty others still stood at attention in their black dress uniforms. They had made it unharmed through the last—

mission wasn't quite the right word. More or less.

There were a dozen others, though, who had lived . . . but were no longer soldiers. It hurt John to look at them. Fhajad sat in a wheelchair, shaking uncontrollably. Kirk and René were in neutral-buoyancy gel tanks, breathing through respirators; their bones had been so twisted they no longer looked human.

There were others, still alive, but with injuries so critical they could not be moved.

Orderlies pushed Fhajad and the other injured toward the elevator.

John strode toward them and stopped, blocking their path. "Stand fast, Crewman," he demanded.

"Where are you taking my men?"

The orderly halted and his eyes widened. He swallowed and then said, "I, sir . . . I have my orders, sir."

"Squad Leader," Mendez called out. "A moment."

"Stay," John told the orderly, and marched to face Chief Mendez. "Yes, sir."

"Let them go," Mendez said quietly. "They can't fight anymore. They don't belong here."

John inadvertently glanced at the view screen and the long line of canisters as they shrank in the distance. "What will happen to my men?"

"The Navy takes care of its own," Mendez replied, and lifted his chin a little higher. "They may no longer be the fastest or the strongest soldiers—but they still have sharp minds. They can still plan missions, analyze data, troubleshoot ops . . ."

John exhaled a sigh of relief. "That's all any of us ask for, sir: a chance to serve." He turned to face Fhajad and the others. He snapped to attention and saluted. Fhajad managed to raise one shaking arm and return the salute.

The orderlies wheeled them away.

John looked at what remained of his squad. None of them had moved since the memorial ceremony.

They were waiting for their next mission.

"Our orders, sir?" John asked.

"Two days full bed rest, Squad Leader. Then microgravity physical therapy aboard the Atlas until you recover from the side effects of your augmentation."

Side effects. John flexed his hand. He was clumsy now. Sometimes he could barely walk without falling.

Dr. Halsey had assured him that these "side effects" were a good sign. "Your brain must relearn how to move your body with faster reflexes and stronger muscles," she told him. But his eyes hurt, and they bled a little in the morning, too. He had constant headaches. Every bone in his body ached.

John didn't understand any of this. He only knew that he had a duty to perform—and now he feared he wouldn't be able to. "Is that all, sir?" he asked Mendez.

"No," the Chief replied. "Déjà will be running your squad through the dropship pilot simulator as soon as they are up to it. And," he added, "if they are up for the challenge, she wanted to cover some more organic chemistry and complex algebra."

"Yes, sir," John replied, "we're up to the challenge."

"Good."

John continued to stand fast.

"Was there something else, Squad Leader?"

John furrowed his brow, hesitated, and then finally said, "I was Squad Leader. The last mission was therefore my responsibility . . . and members of my squad died . What did I do wrong?"

Mendez stared at John with his impenetrable black eyes. He glanced at the squad, then back to John.

"Walk with me." He led John to the view screen. He stood and watched as the last of the canisters vanished into the darkness.

"A leader must be ready to send the soldiers under his command to their deaths," Mendez said without turning to face John. "You do this because your duty to the UNSC supersedes your duty to yourself or even your crew."

John looked away from the view screen. He couldn't look at the emptiness anymore. He didn't want to think of his teammates—friends who were like brothers and sisters to him—forever lost.

"It is acceptable," Mendez said, "to spend their lives if necessary." He finally turned and meet John's gaze. "It is not acceptable, however, to waste those lives. Do you understand the difference?"

"I . . . believe I understand, sir," John said. "But which was it on this last mission? Lives spent? Or lives wasted?"

Mendez turned back toward the blackness of space and didn't answer.

0430 Hours, April 22, 2525 (Military Calendar)

UNSC Carrier Atlas on patrol in the Lambda

Serpentis System

John oriented himself as he entered the gym.

From the stationary corridor, it was easy to see that this section of the Atlas rotated. The constant accelerationgave the circular walls a semblance of gravity.

Unlike the other portions of the carrier, however, this section wasn't cylindrical, but rather a segmented cone. The outer portion was wider and rotated more slowly than the narrower inner portion—simulating gravitational forces from one quarter to two gravities along the length of the gym.

There were free weights, punching and speed bags, a boxing ring, and machines to stretch and tone every muscle group. No one else was up this early. He had the place to himself.

John started with arm curls. He went to the center section, calibrated at one gee, and picked up a twenty-kilogram dumbbell. It felt wrong—too light. The spin must be off. He set the weights down and picked up a forty-kilogram set. That felt right.

For the last three weeks the Spartans had gone through a daily routine of stretching, isometric exercises, light sparring drills, and lots of eating. They were under orders to consume five high-protein meals a day. After every meal they had to report to the ship's medical bay for a series of mineral and vitamin injections. John was looking forward to getting back to Reach and his normal routine.

There were only thirty-two soldiers left in his squad. Thirty candidates had "washed out" of the Spartan program; they died during the augmentation process. The other dozen, suffering from side effects of the process, had been permanently reassigned within the Office of Naval Intelligence.

He missed them all, but he and the others had to go on—they had to recover and prove themselves all over again.

John wished Chief Mendez had warned him. He could have prepared. Maybe that was the trick to the last mission—to learn to be prepared for anything. He wouldn't let his guard down again.

He took a seat at the leg machine, set it to the maximum weight—but it felt too light. He moved to the high-gee end of the gym. Things felt normal again.

John worked every machine, then moved to a speed bag, a leather ball attached to the floor and ceiling by a thick elastic band. There were only certain allowed frequencies at which the bag could be hit, or it gyrated chaotically.

His fist jabbed forward, cobra-quick, and struck. The speed bag moved, but slowly, like it was underwater . . . far too slowly considering how hard he had hit it. The tension on the line must be turned way down.

He twanged the line and it hummed. It was tight.

Was everything broken in this room?

He pulled a pin from the locking collar on the bench press. John walked to the center section—

supposedly one gee. He held the pin a meter off the deck and dropped it. It clattered on the deck.

It looked as if it had fallen normally . . . but somehow it also looked slow to John.

He set the timer on his watch and dropped the pin again. Forty-five-hundredths of a second.

One meter in about a half second. He forgot the formula for distance and acceleration, so he ran through the calculus and rederived the equation. He even did the square root.

He frowned. He had always struggled with math before.

The answer was a gravitational acceleration of nine point eight meters per second squared. One standard gee.

So the room was rotating correctly. He was out of calibration.

His experiment was cut short. Four men entered the gym. They were out of uniform, wearing only shorts and boots. Their heads were cleanly shaven. They were all heavily muscled, lean, and fit. The largest of the four was taller than John. Scars covered one side of his face.

John could tell they were Special Forces—Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. The ODSTs had the traditional tattoos burned onto their arms: DROP JET JUMPERS and FEET FIRST INTO HELL.

"Helljumpers"—the infamous 105th. John had overheard mess hall chatter about them. They had a reputation for success . . . and for brutality, even against fellow soldiers.

John gave them a polite nod.

They just brushed past him and started on the high-gravity free weights. The largest ODST lifted the bar of the bench press. He struggled and the bar wavered unsteadily. The iron plates on the right end slid off and fell to the deck. The opposite end of the bar tilted, and he dropped the weight, almost crushing his spotter's foot.

Startled by the noise, John jumped up.

"What the—" The big ODST stood and glared at the locking collar that had slipped off. "Someone took the pin." He growled and turned to John.

John picked up the pin. "The error was mine," he said and stepped forward. "My apologies."

The four ODSTs moved as one toward John. The big guy with the scars stood a hand's breadth away from John's nose. "Why don't you take that pin and shove it, meat?" he said, grinning. "Or better yet, maybe I should make you eat it." He nodded to his friends.

John only knew three ways to react to people. If they were his superior officers, he obeyed them. If they were part of his squad, he helped them. If they were a threat, he neutralized them.

So when the men surrounding him moved . . . he hesitated.

Not because he was afraid, but because these men could have fallen into any of John's three categories.

He didn't know their rank. They were fellow servicemen in the UNSC. But, at the moment, they didn't seem friendly.

The two men flanking him grabbed John's biceps. The one behind him tried to slip an arm around his neck.

John hunched his shoulders and tucked his chin to his chest so he couldn't be choked. He whipped his right elbow over the hand holding him, pinned it to his side, and then straight punched the man and broke his nose.

The other three reacted, tightening their grips and stepping closer—but like the dropped pin, they moved slowly.

John ducked and slipped out of the unsuccessful headlock. He spun free, breaking the grasp of the man on his left at the same time.

"Stand down!" A booming voice echoed across the gym.

A sergeant stepped into the gym and strode toward them. Unlike Mendez, who was fit and trim and was always serious, this man's stomach bulged over his belt, and he looked bemused.

John snapped to attention. The others stood there and continued to glare at John.

"Sarge," the man with the bleeding nose said. "We were just—"

"Did I ask you a question?" the Sergeant barked.

"No, Sergeant!" the man replied.

The Sergeant eyed John, then the ODSTs. "You're all so eager to fight, get in the ring and go to it."

"Sir!" John said. He went to the boxing ring, slipped through the ropes, and stood there waiting.

This was starting to make sense. It was a mission. John had received orders from a superior officer, and the four men were now targets.

The big ODST pushed through the ropes and the others gathered to watch. "I'm going to rip you to pieces, meat," he grunted through clenched teeth.

John sprang off his back foot and launched his entire weight behind his first strike. His fist smashed into the man's wide chin. John's left hand followed and impacted on the soldier's jaw.

The man's hands came up; John stepped in, pinned one of the man's arms to his chest, and followed through with a hook to his floating ribs. Bones broke.

The man staggered back. John took a short step, brought his heel down on the man's knee. Three more punches and the man was against the ropes . . . then he stopped moving, his arm and leg and neck tilted at unnatural angles.

The three other men moved. The one with the bloody nose grabbed an iron bar.

John didn't need orders this time. Three attackers at once—he had to take them out before they surrounded him. He might be faster, but he didn't have eyes in the back of his head.

The man with the iron bar swung a vicious blow at John's ribs; John sidestepped, grabbed the man's hand, and clamped it to the bar. He twisted the bar and crushed the bones of his attacker's wrist.

John snapped a side kick toward the second man, caught him in the groin, crushing the soft organs and breaking his target's pelvis.

John pulled the bar free—whipped around and caught the third man in the neck, hitting him so hard the ODST was propelled over the ropes.

"At ease, Number 117," Chief Petty Officer Mendez barked.

John obeyed and dropped the bar. Like the pin, it seemed to take too long for the impromptu weapon to hit the deck.

The ODSTs lay crumpled on the ground, either unconscious or dead.

Mendez, at the far end of the gym, strode toward the boxing ring.

The Sergeant stood with his mouth open. "Chief Mendez, sir!" He snapped a crisp salute. "What are you

—" He turned to John, his eyes widened, and he murmured, "He's one of them , isn't he?"

"Medics are on their way," Mendez said calmly. He stepped closer to the Sergeant. "There are two intel officers waiting for you in Ops. They'll debrief you . . ." He stepped back. "I suggest you report to them immediately."

"Yes, sir," the Sergeant said. He almost ran out of the gym. He looked once over his shoulder at John; then he moved even faster.

"Your workout is over for today," Mendez told John.

John saluted and left the ring.

A team of medics entered with stretchers and rushed toward the boxing ring.

"Permission to speak, sir?" John said.

Mendez nodded.

"Were those men part of a mission? Were they targets or teammates?"

John knew that this had to be some sort of mission. The Chief had been too close for it to be a coincidence.

"You engaged and neutralized a threat," Mendez replied. "That action seems to have answered your question, Squad Leader."

John wrinkled his forehead as he thought it through. "I followed the chain of command," he said. "The Sergeant told me to fight. I was threatened and in imminent danger. But they were still UNSC Special Forces. Fellow soldiers."

Mendez lowered his voice. "Not every mission has simple objectives or comes to a logical conclusion.

Your priorities are to follow the orders in your chain of command, and then to preserve your life and the lives of your team. Is that clear?"

"Sir," John said. "Yes, sir." He glanced back at the ring. Blood was seeping into the canvas mat. John had an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He hit the showers and let the blood rinse off him. He felt strangely sorry for the men he had killed.

But he knew his duty—the Chief had even been unusually verbose in order to clarify the matter. Follow orders and keep himself and his team safe. That's all he had to focus on. John didn't give the incident in the gym another thought.


	10. Chapter 8

I do not own this story it is owned by Eric Nylund

CHAPTER Eight

0930 Hours, September 11, 2525 (Military Calendar) / Epsilon Eridani System, Reach UNSC

Military Complex, planet Reach

Dr. Halsey reclined in Mendez's padded chair. She considered pilfering one of the Sweet William cigars from the box on his desk—see why he considered them such a treat. The stench wafting from the box, however, was too overwhelming. How did he stand them?

The door opened and CPO Mendez halted in the doorway. "Ma'am," he said, and stood straighter. "I wasn't informed that you would be visiting today. In fact, I had understood that you were out of the system for another week. I would have made arrangements."

"I'm sure you would have." She folded her hands in her lap. "Our situation has changed. Where are my Spartans? They are not in their barracks, nor on any of the ranges."

Mendez hesitated. "They can no longer train here, ma'am. We had to find them . . . other facilities."

Dr. Halsey stood and smoothed the pleats in her gray skirt. "Maybe you should explain that statement, Chief."

"I could," he replied, "but it will be easier to show you."

"Very well," Dr. Halsey said, her curiosity piqued. Mendez escorted her to his personal Warthog parked outside his office. The all-terrain combat vehicle had been refitted; the heavy chain-gun on the back had been removed and replaced with a rack of Argent V missiles.

Mendez drove them off the base and onto winding mountain roads. "Reach was first colonized for its rich titanium deposits," Mendez told her. "There are mines in these mountains thousands of meters deep.

The UNSC uses them for storage."

"I presume you do not have my Spartans taking inventory today, Chief?"

"No, ma'am. We just need the privacy."

Mendez drove the Warthog past a manned guardhouse and into a large tunnel that sloped steeply underground.

The road wound down in a spiral, deeper into sold granite. Mendez said, "Do you remember the Navy's first experiments with powered exoskeletons?"

"I'm not sure I see the connection between this place, my Spartans, and the exoskeleton projects," Dr.

Halsey replied, frowning, "but I'll play along a bit further. Yes, I know all about the Mark I prototypes.

We had to scrap the concept and redesign battle armor from the ground up for the MJOLNIR project.

The Mark Is consumed enormous energy. Either they had to be plugged into a generator or use inefficientbroadcast power—neither option is practical on a battlefield."

Mendez decelerated slightly as he approached a speed bump. The Warthog's massive tires thudded over the obstacle.

"They used the units that weren't scrapped," Dr. Halsey continued, "as dock loaders to move heavy equipment." She cocked one eyebrow. "Or might they have been dumped in a place like this?"

"There are dozens of the suits here."

"You haven't put my Spartans in some of those antiques?"

"No. Their trainers are using them for their own safety," Mendez replied. "When the Spartans recovered from microgravity therapy, they were eager to get back to their routine. However, we experienced some

—" He paused, searching for the right word. " . . . difficulties."

He glanced at his passenger. His face was grim. "Their first day back, three trainers were accidentally killed during hand-to-hand combat exercises."

Dr. Halsey cocked an eyebrow. "Then they are faster and stronger than we anticipated?"

"That," Mendez replied, "would be understating the situation."

The tunnel opened into a large cavern. There were lights scattered on the walls, overhead a hundred meters up on the ceiling, and along the floor, but they did little to dissipate the overwhelming darkness.

Mendez parked the Warthog next to a small, prefabricated building. He jumped out and helped Dr.

Halsey step from the vehicle. "This way, please." Mendez gestured to the room. "We'll have a better view from inside."

The building had three glass walls and several monitors marked MOTION, INFRARED, DOPPLER, and PASSIVE. Mendez pushed a button and the room climbed a track along the wall until they were twenty meters off the floor.

Mendez keyed a microphone and spoke: "Lights."

Floodlights snapped on and illuminated a section of the cavern the size of a football field. In the center stood a concrete bunker. Three men in the primitive Mark I power armor stood on top. Six more stood evenly spaced around the perimeter. A red banner had been planted in the center of the bunker.

"Capture the flag?" Dr. Halsey asked. "Past all that heavy armor?"

"Yes. The trainers in those exoskeletons can run at thirty-two KPH, lift two tons, and have a thirty-millimeter minigun mounted on self-targeting armatures—stun rounds, of course. They're also equipped with the latest motion sensors and IR scopes. And needless to say, their armor is impervious to standard light weapons. It would take two or three platoons of conventional Marines to take that bunker."

Mendez spoke again in the microphone, and his voice echoed off the cavern walls: "Start the drill."

Sixty seconds ticked by. Nothing happened. One hundred twenty seconds. "Where are the Spartans?"

Dr. Halsey asked.

"They're here," Mendez replied. Dr. Halsey caught a glimpse of motion in the dark: a shadow against shadows, a familiar silhouette.

"Kelly?" she whispered.

The trainers turned and fired at the shadow, but it moved with almost supernatural quickness. Even the self-targeting systems couldn't track it.

From above, a man free-rappelled down from the girders and gantries overhead. The newcomer landed behind one of the perimeter guards, quiet as a cat. He punched the guard's armor twice, denting the heavy plates, then dropped low and swept the target's legs out from under him. The guard sprawled on the ground.

The Spartan attached his rappelling line to the trainer. A moment later the writhing guard shot upward, into the darkness.

Two other guards turned to attack.

The Spartan dodged, rolled, and melted into the shadows.

Dr. Halsey realized the trainer's exoskeleton wasn't being pulled up—it was being used as a counterweight.

Two more Spartans, dangling from the other end of that rope, dropped unnoticed into the center of the bunker. Dr. Halsey immediately recognized one of them, although he was dressed entirely in black, save his open eye slits—Number 117. John.

John landed, braced, and kicked one guard. The man landed in a heap . . . eight meters away.

The other Spartan jumped off the bunker; he flipped end over end, evading the stun rounds that filled the air. He threw himself at the farthest guard and they skidded together into the shadows. The guard's gun strobed once, and then it was dark again.

On top of the bunker, John was a blur of slashing motions. A second guard's exosuit erupted in a fountain of hydraulic fluid and then collapsed under the armor's weight.

The last guard on the bunker turned to fire at John. Halsey gripped the edge of her chair. "He's at point blank range! Even stun rounds can kill at that distance!"

As the guard's gun fired, John sidestepped. The stun rounds slashed through the air, a clean miss. John grabbed the weapon's armature—twisted—and with a screech of stressed metal, wrenched it free of the exoskeleton. He fired directly into the man's chest and sent him tumbling off the bunker.

The remaining quartet of perimeter guards turned and sprayed the area with suppression fire.

A heartbeat later, the lights went out.

Mendez cursed and keyed the mike. "Backups. Hit the backup lights now!"

A dozen amber floods flickered to life.

Not a Spartan was in sight, but the nine trainers were either unconscious or lay immobile in inert battle armor.

The red flag was gone.

"Show me that again," Dr. Halsey said unbelievingly. "You recorded all that, didn't you?"

"Of course." Mendez tapped a button but the monitors played back—static. "Damn it. They got to the cameras, too," he muttered, impressed. "Every time we find a new place to hide them, they disable the recording devices."

Dr. Halsey leaned against the glass wall staring at the carnage below. "Very well, Chief Mendez, what else do I need to know?"

"Your Spartans can run at bursts of up to fifty-five KPH," he explained. "Kelly can run a little faster, I think. They will only get quicker as they adjust to the 'alterations' we've made to their bodies. They can lift three times their body weight—which, I might add, is almost double the norm due to their increased muscle density. And they can virtually see in the dark."

Dr. Halsey pondered this new data. "They should not be performing so well. There must be unexplained synergistic effects brought on by the combined modifications. What are their reaction times?"

"Almost impossible to chart. We estimate it at twenty milliseconds," Mendez replied. He shook his head, then added, "I believe it's significantly faster in combat situations, when their adrenaline is pumping."

"Any physiological or mental instabilities?"

"None. They work like no team I've ever seen before. Damn near telepathic, if you ask me. They were dropped in these caves yesterday, and I don't know where they got black suits or the rope that for that maneuver, but I can guarantee they haven't left this room. They improvise and improve and adapt.

"And," he added, "they like it. The tougher the challenge, the harder the fight . . . the better their morale becomes."

Dr. Halsey watched as the first trainer stirred and struggled to get out of his inert armor. "They might as well have been killed," she murmured. "But can the Spartans kill, Chief? Kill on purpose? Are they ready for real combat?"

Mendez looked away and paused before he spoke. "Yes. If we ordered them to, they would kill quite efficiently." His body stiffened. "May I ask what 'real combat' you mean, ma'am?"

She clasped her hands and wrung them nervously. "Something has happened, Chief. Something ONI and the Admiralty never expected. The brass wants to deploy the Spartans. They want to test them in a real combat mission."

"They're as ready for that as I can make them," Mendez said. He narrowed his dark eyes. "But this is far ahead of your schedule. What happened? I've heard rumors there was some heavy action near Harvest colony."

"Your rumors are out-of-date, Chief," she said, and a chill crept into her voice. "There's no more fighting at Harvest. There is no more Harvest."

Dr. Halsey punched the descent button, and the observation room slowly lowered to the floor.

"Get them out of this hole," she said crisply. "I want them ready to muster at 0400. We have a briefing at 0600 tomorrow aboard the Pioneer . We're taking them on a mission ONI has been saving for the right crew and the right time. This is it."

"Yes, ma'am," Mendez replied.

"Tomorrow we see if all the pain they've been through has been worth it."


	11. Chapter 9

I do not own this story it is owned by Eric Nylund

CHAPTER Nine

0605 Hours, September 12, 2525 (Military Calendar) / UNSC Destroyer Pioneer , en route to Eridanus System.

John and the other Spartans stood at ease.

The briefing room aboard the UNSC Destroyer Pioneer made him uncomfortable. The holographic projectors at the fore end of the triangular room showed the field of stars visible off the bow of the ship.

John wasn't used to seeing so much space; he kept expecting the room to decompress explosively.

The stars flickered and faded and the overhead lights warmed. Chief Petty Officer Mendez and Dr.

Halsey entered the room.

The Spartans snapped to attention.

"At ease," Mendez said. He clasped his hands behind his back and clenched his jaw muscles. The Chief looked almost . . . nervous.

That made John nervous, too.

Dr. Halsey walked to the podium. The overhead light reflected off her glasses. "Good morning, Spartans. I have good news for you. The word has come down. Command has decided to test your unique abilities. You have a new mission: an insurgent base in the Eridanus System."

A star map appeared on the wall and zoomed in to show a warm orange sun ringed with twelve planets.

"In 2513, an armed insurrection in this system was suppressed by the UNSC force—Operation: TREBUCHET."

An intersystem tactical map appeared, and tiny icons representing destroyers and carriers winked on.

They engaged a force of a hundred smaller ships. Pinpoints of fire appeared against the dark.

"The insurrection was put down," Dr. Halsey continued. "However, elements of the rebel forces escaped and regrouped in the local asteroid belt."

The map tilted and moved into the circle of debris around the star.

"Billions of rocks," Dr. Halsey said, "where they hid from our forces . . . and continue to hide to this day. For some time ONI believed that the rebels were disorganized, and were lacking in leadership. That appears to have changed.

"We believe that one of these asteroids has been hollowed out, and that a formidable base has been constructed within. UNSC explorations into the belt have met either with no contact or with an ambush by superior forces."

She paused, pushed up her glasses, and added, "The Office of Naval Intelligence has also confirmed that FLEETCOM has discovered a security breach within their organization—a rebel sympathizer leaking information to these forces."

John and the other Spartans shifted uneasily. A leak? It was possible. Déjà had shown them many historical battles that had been won and lost because of traitors or informants. But it never occurred to him that it could happen in the UNSC.

A flat picture flashed over the star map: a middle-aged man with thinning hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and watery gray eyes.

"This is their leader," Dr. Halsey said. "Colonel Robert Watts. The original photo was taken after Operation: TREBUCHET and has been computer aged.

"Your mission is to infiltrate the rebel base, capture Watts, and return him—alive and unharmed—to UNSC-controlled space. This will deprive the rebels of their new leadership. And it will provide ONI a chance to interrogate Watts and root out traitors within FLEETCOM."

Dr. Halsey stepped aside. "Chief Mendez?"

Mendez exhaled and unclasped his hands. He strode to the podium and cleared his throat. "This operation will be different from your previous missions. You will be engaging the enemy using live rounds and lethal force. They will be returning the favor. If there is any doubt, any confusion—and make no mistake: in combat, there will be confusion—take no chances. Kill first, ask questions later.

"Support on this mission will be limited to the resources and firepower of this destroyer," Mendez continued. "This is to minimize the chance of a leak in the command structure."

Mendez walked to the star map. The face of Colonel Watts snapped off and blueprints for a Parabola-class freighter appeared.

"Although we don't know the location of the rebel base, we believe they receive periodic shipments from Eridanus Two. The independent freighter Laden is due to leave space dock in six hours for a routine recertification of her engines. She is being loaded with enough food and water to supply a small city.

Additionally, her captain has been identified as a rebel officer thought to have been killed during Operation: TREBUCHET.

"You will slip aboard this freighter and hopefully hitch a ride to the rebel base. Once there, infiltrate the installation, grab Watts, and get off of that rock any way you can."

Chief Mendez gazed at them all. "Questions?"

"Sir," John said. "What are our extraction options?"

"You have two options: a panic button that will relay a distress signal to a preestablished listening ship.

Also, the Pioneer will stay on-station . . . briefly. Our window here is thirteen hours." He tapped the star map on the edge of the asteroid belt and it glowed with a blue Nav marker. "I'll leave the extraction choice up to you. But let me point out that this asteroid belt has a circumference of more than a billion kilometers . . . making it impossible to canvass with ONI surveillance craft. If things get hot, you will be on your own.

"Any other questions?"

The Spartans sat, silent and immobile.

"No? Well, listen up, Recruits," Mendez added. "This time I've told you all the twists that I know of. Be prepared for anything." His gaze fixed on John. "Squad Leader, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Petty Officer Third Class."

"Sir!" John snapped to attention.

"Assemble your team and equipment. Be ready to muster at 0300. We'll drop you off at the Eridanus Two docks. You're on your own from there."

"Yes, sir!" John said.

Mendez saluted. He and Dr. Halsey then left the room.

John turned to face his teammates. The other Spartans stood at attention. Thirty-three—too many for thisoperation. He needed a small team: five or six maximum.

"Sam, Kelly, Linda, and Fred, meet me in the weapons locker in ten minutes." The other Spartans sighed and their gazed dropped to the deck. "The rest of you fall out. You'll have the more difficult part of this mission: You'll have to wait here."

The weapons locker of the Pioneer had been stocked with a bewildering array of combat equipment. On a table were guns, knives, communication gear, body armor explosives, medical packs, survival gear, portable computers, even a thruster pack for maneuvering in space.

More important than the equipment, however, John assessed his team.

Sam had recovered from the augmentation faster than any of the other Spartans. He paced impatiently around the crates of grenades. He was the strongest of them all. He stood taller than John by a head. He had grown out his sandy hair to three centimeters. Chief Mendez had warned him that he was going to look like a civilian soon.

Kelly, in contrast, had taken the longest to recover. She stood in the corner with her arms crossed over her chest. John had thought she wasn't going to make it. She was still gaunt and her hair had yet to grow back. Her face, however, still had its rough, angular beauty. She scared John a little, too. She was fast before . . . now no one could touch her if she didn't allow it.

Fred sat cross-legged on the deck, twirling a razor-edged combat knife in glittering arcs. He always came in second in all the contests. John thought he could have come in first, but he just didn't like the attention. He was neither too short nor too tall. He wasn't overly muscled or slim. His black hair was shot with streaks of silver—a feature he hadn't had before the augmentation. If anyone in the group could blend into a crowd, it would be him.

Linda was the quietest member of the group. She was pale, had close-cropped red hair, and green eyes.

She was a crack shot, an artist with a sniper rifle.

Kelly circled the table once, and then selected a pair of grease-stained blue coveralls. Her name had been sloppily embroidered on the chest. "These our new trainee uniforms?"

"ONI provided them," John said. "They're supposed to match what the crew of the Laden wears."

Kelly held the coveralls up and frowned. "They don't give a girl much to work with."

"Try this on for size." Linda held a black body suit up to Kelly's long slender frame.

They had used these black suits before. They were form-fitting, lightweight polymer body armor. They could deflect a small-caliber round and had refrigeration/heating units that would mask infrared signatures. The integrated helmet had encryption and communications gear, a heads-up display, and thermal and motion detectors. Sealed tight, the unit had a fifteen-minute reserve of oxygen to let the wearer survive in vacuum.

The suits were uncomfortable, and they were tricky to repair in the field. And they always needed repairs.

"They're too tight," Kelly said. "It'll limit my range of motion."

"We wear them for this op," John told her. "There are too many places between here and there with nothing to breathe but vacuum. As for the rest of your equipment, take what you want—but stay light.

Without recon data on this place, we're going to be moving fast . . . or we'll be dead."

The team started selecting their weapons first.

"Three-ninety caliber?" Fred asked.

"Yes," John replied. "Everyone take guns that use .390-caliber ammunition so we can share clips if we have to. Except Linda."

Linda gravitated to a matte-black long-barreled rifle—the SRS99C-S2 AM. The sniper rifle system had modular sections: scopes, stocks, barrels, even the firing mechanism could be swapped. She quickly stripped the rifle down and reconfigured it. She assembled a flash-and-sound suppression barrel, and then to compensate for the lower muzzle velocity, she increased the ammunition caliber to .450. She ditched all the sights and scopes and settled for an integrated link to her helmet's heads-up display. She pocketed five extended ammunition clips.

John also chose an MA2B, a cut-down version of the standard MA5B assault rifle. It was tough and reliable, with electronic targeting and an ammo supply indicator. It also had a recoil-reduction system, and could deliver an impressive fifteen rounds per second.

He picked up a knife: twenty-centimeter blade, one serrated edge, nonreflective titanium carbide, and balanced for throwing.

John grabbed the panic button—a tiny single-shot emergency beacon. It had two settings. The red setting alerted the Pioneer that it had hit the fan, and to come in guns blazing. The green setting merely marked the location of the base for later assault by the UNSC.

He took a double handful of ammo clips—then paused. He set them down and pocketed five. If they got into a firefight where he'd need that much firepower, their mission was over anyway.

Everyone took similar equipment, with a few variations. Kelly selected a small computer pad with IR

links. She also had their field medical kit.

Fred packed a standard-issue lockbreaker.

Linda selected three nav marker transmitters, each the size of a tick. The trackers could be adhered to an object and would broadcast that object's location to the Spartans' heads-up displays.

Sam hefted two medium-size backpacks—"damage packs." They were filled with C-12, enough high explosives to blow through three meters of battleship armor plate.

"You have enough of that stuff?" Kelly asked him wryly.

"You think I should take more?" Sam replied, and smiled. "Nothing like a little fireworks to celebrate the end of a mission."

"Everyone ready?" John asked.

Sam's smile disappeared and he slapped an extended clip into his MA2B. "Ready!"

Kelly gave him John a thumbs-up.

Fred and Linda nodded.

"Then let's go to work."


	12. Chapter 10

I do not own this story it is owned by Eric Nylund

CHAPTER Ten

1210 Hours, September 14, 2525 (Military Calendar) / Epsilon Eridani System, Eridanus 2 space dock, civilian Cargo Ship, Laden (registry number F-0980W)

"Spartan 117: in position. Next check-in at 0400." John clicked off the microphone, encrypted the message, and fed it into his COM relay. He triggered a secure burst transmission to the Athens , the ONI prowler ship on station a few AUs distant.

He and his teammates climbed onto the upper girders. In silence, the team rigged a web of support nets so they could rest in relative comfort. Below them lay a hundred thousand liters of black water, and surrounding them, two centimeters of stainless steel. Sam rigged the fill sensor so the reservoir's computer wouldn't let any more water flow into the storage tank. The lights in their helmets cast a pattern of crossing and crisscrossing reflection lines.

A perfect hiding spot—all according to plan, John thought, and allowed himself a small grin of triumph.

The tech specs that ONI had procured on the Laden showed a number of hydroponic pods mounted around the ship's carousel system—the massive water tanks used gravity feed to irrigate the ship's space-grown crops.

Perfect.

They had easily slipped past the lone guard in the Laden 's main cargo bay and into the nearly deserted center section. The water tank would mask their thermal signatures, and block any motion sensors.

The only risky element entered the picture if the center section stopped spinning . . . things could get very messy inside the tank, very fast. But John doubted that would happen.

Kelly set up a tiny microwave relay outside the top hatch. She propped her data pad on her stomach and linked to the ship's network. "I'm in," she reported. "There's no AI or serious encryption . . . accessing their system now." She tapped the pad a few more times and activated the intrusion software—the best that ONI could provide. A moment later the pad pulsed to indicate success.

"They've got a nav trajectory to the asteroid belt. ETA is ten hours."

"Good work," John said. "Team: we'll sleep in shifts." Sam, Fred, and Linda snapped off their flashlights.

The tank reverberated as the Laden 's engines flared to life. The water tilted as they accelerated away from the orbital docking station.

John remembered Eridanus 2—vaguely recalled that it once was home. He wondered if his old school, his family, were still there—

He squelched his curiosity. Speculation made for a fine mental exercise, but the mission came first. He had to stay alert—or failing that, grab some sleep so he would be alert when he needed to be. Chief Mendez must have told them a thousand times: "Rest can be as deadly a weapon as a pistol or grenade."

"I've got something," Kelly whispered, and handed him her data pad.

It displayed the cargo manifest for the Laden . John scrolled down the list: water, flour, milk, frozen orange juice, welding rods, superconducting magnets for a fusion reactor . . . no mention of weapons.

"I give up," he said. "What am I looking for?"

"I'll give you a hint," Kelly replied. "The Chief smokes them."

John flicked back through the list. There: Sweet William cigars. Next to them on the manifest was a crate of champagne, a Beta Centauri vintage. There were fast-chilled New York steaks, and Swiss chocolates. These items were stored in a secure locker. They had the same routing codes.

"Luxury items," Kelly murmured. "I bet they're headed straight for a special delivery to Colonel Watts or his officers."

"Good work," John replied. "We'll tag this stuff and follow it."

"Won't be that easy," Fred said from the darkness. He flicked on his flashlight and peered back at John.

"There are a million ways this can go wrong. We're going in without recon. I don't like it."

"We only have one advantage on this mission," John said. "The rebels have never been infiltrated—

they'll feel relatively safe and won't be expecting us. But every extra second we stay . . . that's another chance for us to be spotted. We'll follow Kelly's hunch."

"You questioning orders?" Sam asked Fred. "Scared?" There was a slight hint of challenge in his voice.

Fred thought for a moment. "No," he whispered. "But this is no training mission. Our targets won't be firing stun rounds." He sighed. "I just don't want to fail."

"We're not going to fail," John told him. "We've accomplished every mission we've been on before."

That wasn't entirely true: the augmentation mission had wiped out half of the Spartans. They weren't invincible.

But John wasn't scared. A little nervous, maybe—but he was ready.

"Rotate sleep cycles," John said. "Wake me up in four hours."

He turned over and quickly nodded off to the sound of the sloshing water. He dreamed of gravball and a coin spinning in the air. John caught it and yelled, "Eagle!" as he won again.

He always won.

Kelly nudged John's shoulder and he was instantly awake, hand on his assault rifle.

"We're decelerating," she whispered, and pointed her light into the water below. The liquid tilted at a twenty-degree inclination.

"Lights off," John ordered.

They were plunged into total darkness.

He popped the hatch and snaked the fiber-optic probe—attached to his helmet—through the crack. All clear.

They climbed out, then rappelled down the back of the ten-meter-tall tank. They donned their grease-stained coveralls and removed their helmets. The black suits looked a little bulky beneath the work clothes, but the disguise would hold up to a cursory inspection. With their weapons and gear in duffel bags, they'd pass as crew . . . from a distance.

They crept through a deserted corridor and into the cargo bay. They heard a million tiny metallic pings as gravity settled the ship. The Laden must be docking to a spinning station or a rotating asteroid.

The cargo bay was a huge room, stacked to its ceiling with barrels and crates. There were massive tanks of oil. Automated robot forklifts scurried between rows, checking for items that might have come loose in transit.

There was a terrific clang as a docking clamp grabbed the ship.

"Cigars are this way," Kelly whispered. She consulted her data pad, then tucked it back into her pocket.

They moved out, clinging to the shadows. They stopped every few meters, listened, and made sure their fields of fire were clear.

Kelly held up her hand and made a fist. She pointed to the secure hatch on the starboard side of the hold.

John signaled Fred and Kelly and motioned them to go forward. Fred used the lockbreaker on the door and it popped open. They entered and closed it behind them.

John, Sam, and Linda waited. There was a sudden motion and the Spartans snapped their weapons to firing positions—

A robot forklift passed down an adjacent aisle.

The massive aft doors of the cargo hold parted with a hiss. Light spilled into the hold. A dozen dockworkers dressed in coveralls entered.

John gripped his MA2B tighter. One man looked down the aisle where they crouched in the shadows.

He stooped, paused—

John raised his weapon slowly, his hands steady, and sighted on the man's chest. "Always shoot for center of mass," Mendez had barked during weapons training. The man stood, stretched his back, and moved on, whistling quietly to himself.

Fred and Kelly returned, and Kelly opened and closed her hand, palm out—she had placed the marker.

John grabbed his helmet from his duffel bag and slipped it on. He pinged the navigation marker and saw the bluetriangle flash once on his heads-up display. He returned Kelly's thumbs-up and removed the helmet.

John stowed his helmet and MA2B and motioned for the rest of the team to do the same. They casually walked out of the Laden 's aft cargo hold and onto the rebel base.

The docking bay was hewn from solid rock. The ceiling stretched a kilometer high. Bright lights overhead effectively illuminated the place, looking like tiny suns in the sky. There were hundreds of ships docked within the cavern—tinysingle craft, Mako-class corvettes, cargo freighters, and even a captured UNSC Pelican dropship. Each craft was held by massive cranes that traveled on railroad tracks.

The tracks led toward a series of large airlock doors. That's how the Laden must have gotten inside.

There were people everywhere: workers and men in crisp white uniforms. John's first instinct was to seek cover. Every one of them was a potential threat. He wished he had his gun in hand.

He remained calm and strode among these strangers. He had to set the right example for his team. If his recent encounter with the ODSTs in the gym of the Atlas had been any indication, he knew his team wouldn't interact well with the natives.

John made his way past dockworkers and robotic trams full of cargo and vendors selling roasted meat on sticks. He walked toward a set of double doors set in the far rock wall, marked: PUBLIC SHOWERS.

He pushed through and didn't look back.

The place was almost empty. One man was singing in the shower, and there were two rebel officers undressing near the towel dispensers.

John led his team to the most distant corner of the locker room and hunkered down on one of the benches. Linda sat with her back to them, on lookout duty.

"So far so good," John whispered. "This will be our fallback position if everything falls apart and we get separated."

Sam nodded. "Okay—we have a lead on how to find the Colonel. Anyone have any ideas how to get off this rock once we grab him? Back into the Laden 's water tank?"

"Too slow," Kelly said. "We've got to assume that when Colonel Watt goes missing, his people are going to look for him."

"There was a Pelican on the dock," John said. "We'll take it. Now let's figure out how to operate the cranes and airlocks."

Sam hefted his pack of explosives. "I know just the way to politely knock on those airlock doors. Don't worry."

Sam tapped his left foot. He only did that when he was eager to move. Fred's hands were clenched into fists; he might be nervous, but he had it under control. Kelly yawned. And Linda sat absolutely still.

They were ready.

John got his helmet, donned it, and checked the nav marker.

"Bearing 320," he said. "It's on the move." He picked up his gear. "And so are we."

They left the showers and strode through the dock, past massive drop doors and into a city. This part of the asteroid looked like a canyon carved into the rock; John could barely make out the ceiling far overhead. There were skyscrapers and apartment buildings, factories, and even a small hospital.

John ducked into an alley, slipped on his helmet, and pinpointed the blue nav marker. It overlay a cargo tram that silently rolled down the street. There were three armed guards riding in the back.

The Spartans followed at a discreet distance.

John checked his exit routes. Too many people, and too many unknowns. Were the people here armed?

Would they all engage if fighting started? A few of the people gave him strange looks.

"Spread out," he whispered to his team. "We look like we're on a parade ground."

Kelly stepped up her pace and pulled ahead. Sam fell behind. Fred and Linda drifted to the right and left.

The cargo tram turned and made its way slowly through a crowded street. It stopped at a building. The structure was twelve stories tall, with balconies on every floor.

John guessed these were barracks.

There were two armed guards in white uniforms at the front entrance. The three men in the tram got out and carried the crate inside.

Kelly glanced at John. He nodded, giving her the go-ahead.

She approached the two guards, smiling. John knew her smile wasn't friendly. She was smiling because she was finally getting a chance to put her training to the test.

Kelly waved to the guard and pulled open the door. He asked her to stop and show her identification.

She stepped inside, grabbed his rifle, twisted, and dragged him inside with her.

The other guard stepped back and leveled his rifle. John sprang at him from behind, grabbed his neck and snapped it, then dragged his limp body inside.

The entry room had cinderblock walls and a steel door with a swipe-card lock. A security camera dangled limply over Kelly's head. The guard she had dragged in lay at her feet. She was already running a cracking program on the lock, using her data pad.

John retrieved his MA2B and covered her. Fred and Linda entered and slipped out of their coveralls, then donned their helmets.

"Nav marker is moving," Linda reported. "Mark 270, elevation ten meters, twenty . . . thirty-five and holding. I'd say that's the top floor."

Sam entered, pulled the door shut behind him, and then jammed the lock. "All clear out there."

The inner door clicked. "Door's open," Kelly said.

John, Kelly, and Sam slipped out of their coveralls as Fred and Linda covered them. John activated the motion and thermal displays in his helmet. The target sight glowed as he raised his MA2B.

"Go," John said.

Kelly pushed open the door. Linda stepped in and to the right. John entered and took the left.

Two guards were seated behind the lobby's reception desk. Another man, without a uniform, stood in front of the desk, waiting to be helped; two more uniformed men stood by the elevator.

Linda shot the three near the desk. John eliminated the targets by the elevator.

Five rounds—five bodies hit the floor.

Fred entered and policed the bodies, dragging them behind the counter.

Kelly moved to the stairwell, opened the door, and gave the all-clear signal.

The elevator pinged and its doors opened. They all wheeled, rifles leveled . . . but the car was empty.

John exhaled, then motioned them to take the stairs; Kelly took point. Sam brought up the rear. They silently went up nine double flights of stairs.

Kelly halted on an upper landing. She pointed to the interior of the building, then pointed up.

John detected faint blurs of heat on the twelfth floor. They'd have to pick a better route, a way in that no one would expect.

John opened the door. There was an empty hallway. No targets.

He went to the elevator doors and pried them open. Then he turned on his black suit's cooling elements to mask his thermal signature. The others did the same . . . and faded from his thermal imaging display.

John and Sam climbed up the elevator cable. John glanced down: a thirty-meter plunge into darkness.

He might survive that fall. His bones wouldn't break, but there would be internal damage. And it would certainly compromise their mission. He tightened his grip on the cable and didn't look down again.

When they had climbed up the last three floors, they braced themselves in the corners by the closed elevator door. Kelly and Fred snaked up the cable after them. They braced in the far corners to overlap their fields of fire. Linda came up last. She climbed as far as she could, hooked her foot on a cross brace, and hung upside down.

John held up three fingers, two, then one, and then he and Sam silently pulled open the elevator doors.

There were five guards standing in the room. They wore light body armor and helmets and carried older-model HMG-38 rifles. Two of them turned.

Kelly, Fred, and Linda opened fire. The walnut paneling behind the guards became pockmarked with bullet holes and was spattered with blood.

The team slid inside the room, moving quickly and quietly. Sam policed the guards' weapons.

There were two doors. One led to a balcony; the other featured a peephole. Kelly checked the balcony, then whispered over the channel in their helmets: "This overlooks the alley between buildings. No activity."

John checked the nav marker. The blue triangles flashed a position directly behind the other door.

Sam and Fred flanked the door. John couldn't get any reading on motion or thermal. The walls were shielded. There were too many unknowns and not enough time.

The situation wasn't ideal. They knew there were at least three men inside—the ones who had carried the crate upstairs. And there might be more guards . . . and to complicate the situation, their target had to be taken alive.

John kicked the door in.

He took in the entire situation at a glance. He was standing on the threshold of a sumptuous apartment.

There was a wet bar boasting shelves of amber-filled bottles. A large, round bed dominated the corner, decorated with shimmering silk sheets. Windows on all sides had sheer white curtains—John's helmet automatically compensated for the glare. Red carpet covered the floor. The crate with the cigars and champagne sat in the center of the room. It was black and armored, sealed tight against the vacuum of space.

There were three men standing behind the armored crate, and one man crouched behind them. Colonel Robert Watts—their "package."

John didn't have a clear shot. If he missed, he could hit the Colonel.

The three men, however, didn't have that problem. They fired.

John dove to his left. He caught three rounds in his side—knocking the breath from his body. One bullet penetrated his black suit. He felt it ping off his ribs and pain slashed through him like a red-hot razor.

He ignored the wound and rolled to his feet. He had a clear line of fire. He squeezed the trigger once—a three-round burst caught the center guard in the forehead.

Sam and Fred wheeled around the door frame, Sam high, Fred low. Their silenced weapons coughed and the remaining pair of guards went down.

Watts remained behind the crate. He brandished his pistol. "Stop!" he screamed. "My men are coming.

You think I'm alone? You're all dead. Drop your weapons."

John crawled to the wet bar and crouched there. He willed the pain inside his stomach to go away. He signaled Sam and Fred and held up two fingers, then pointed the fingers over his head.

Sam and Fred fired a burst of rounds over Watts. He ducked.

John vaulted over the bar and leaped onto his quarry. He grabbed the pistol and wrenched it out of his hand, breaking the man's index finger and thumb. John snaked his arm around Watts's neck and choked the struggling man into near-unconsciousness.

Kelly and Linda entered. Kelly took out a syringe and injected Watts—enough polypseudomorph**e to keep him sedated for the better part of a day.

Fred fell back to cover the elevator. Sam entered and crouched by the windows, watching the street below for any signs of trouble.

Kelly went to John and peeled back his black suit. Her gloves were slick with his blood. "The bullet is still inside," she said, and bit her lower lip. "There's a lot of internal bleeding. Hang on." She dug a tiny bottle from her belt and inserted the nozzle into the bullet hole. "This might sting a little."

The self-sealing biofoam filled John's abdominal cavity. It also stung like a hundred ants crawling through his innards. She pulled the bottle out and taped up the hole. "You're good for a few hours," she said, and then gave him a hand up.

John felt shaky, but he'd make it. The foam would keep him from bleeding to death and stave off the shock . . . for a while, at least.

"Incoming vehicles," Sam announced. "Six men entering the building. Two taking up position outside . . . but just the front."

"Get our package inside that crate and seal it up," John ordered.

He left the room, got his duffel, and went to the balcony. He secured a rope and tossed it down twelve stories into the alley. He rappelled down, took a second to scan the alley for threats, then clicked his throat mike once—the all-clear signal.

Kelly snapped a descent rig on the crate and pushed it off the balcony. It zipped down the line and thudded to a halt at the bottom.

A moment later the rest of the team glided down the rope.

They quickly donned their coveralls. Sam and Fred carried the crate as they entered the adjacent building. They exited on the street a half block down and walked as quickly as they could back to the docks.

Dozens of uniformed men ran from the dock toward the city. No one challenged them.

They reentered the now-deserted public showers.

"Everyone check your seals," John said. "Sam, you go ring the doorbell. Meet us on the dropship."

Sam nodded and sprinted out of the building, both packs of C-12 looped around his shoulder.

John took out the panic button. He triggered the green-mode transmission and tossed it into an empty locker. If they didn't make it out, at least the UNSC fleet would know where to find the rebel base.

"Your suit is breached," Kelly reminded John. "We better get to the ship now, before Sam sets off his fireworks."

Linda and Fred checked the seals on the crate then carried it out. Kelly took point and John brought up the rear.

They boarded the Pelican dropship and John sized up her armaments—dented and charred armor, a pair of old, out-of-date 40mm chain guns. The rocket pods had been removed. Not much of a warhorse.

There was a flash of lightning at the far end of the dock. The thunder roiled through the deck, and then through John's stomach.

While John watched, a gaping hole materialized in the airlock door amid a cloud of smoke and shattered metal. Black space loomed beyond. With an earsplitting roar, the atmosphere held in the docks abruptly transformed into a hurricane. People, crates, and debris were blasted out of the ragged tear.

John pulled himself inside the dropship and prepared to seal the main hatch.

He watched as emergency doors descended over the breached airlock. There was a second explosion, and the drop door paused, then fell and clattered to the deck, crushing a light transport vessel underneath.

Behind them, large bay doors closed, sealing the docks off from the city. Dozens of workers still on the docks ran for their lives, but didn't make it.

Sam sprinted across the deck, perfectly safe inside his sealed black suit. He cycled through the Pelican's emergency airlock.

"Back door's open," he said with a grin.

Kelly fired up the engines. The Pelican lifted, maneuvered through the dock, and then out through the blasted hole and into open space. She pushed the throttle to maximum burn.

Behind them, the insurgent base looked like any other rock in the asteroid belt . . . but this rock was venting atmosphere and starting to rotate erratically.

After five minutes at full power, Kelly eased the engines back. "We'll hit the extraction point in two hours," she said.

"Check on our prisoner," John said.

Sam popped open the crate. "The seals held. Watts is still alive and has a steady pulse," he said.

"Good," John grunted. He winced as the throbbing pain in his side increased.

"Something bothering you?" Kelly asked. "How's that biofoam holding up?"

"It's fine," he said without even looking at the hole in his side. "I'll make it."

He knew he should feel elated—but instead he just felt tired. Something didn't sit right about the operation. He wondered about all the dead dockworkers and civilians back there. None of them were designated targets. And yet, weren't they all rebels on that asteroid?

On the other hand, it was like the Chief said—he had followed his orders, completed his mission, and gotten his people out alive. What more did he want?

John stuffed his doubts deep in the back of his mind.

"Nothing's wrong," he said, and squeezed Kelly's shoulder. John smiled. "What could be wrong? We won."


End file.
